Flowers

Amma pressed dried flowers between yellowed pages of Kannadasan's poems, their Tamil Brahmi inscriptions fading like memories. She'd earned nothing selling these pressed blooms on the network—just pocket change from strangers. But when her grandson asked about the script, her eyes brightened. She showed him how each flower marked a verse, a season, a story their ancestors knew by heart. The real currency wasn't digital coins. It was watching him trace those ancient letters, understanding finally that heritage blooms eternal when shared with those we love.