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Amma planted five neem trees along our Chennai street decades ago. My brother documented them yesterday, each photo earning surprising income through a content platform. He laughed nervously, showing me the payments. But I remembered differently. Those trees sheltered Tamil elders reciting Thirukkural. Children climbed their branches, scraped knees, learned resilience. Monsoons brought us together beneath their canopy. Money arrived fast, but something felt hollow. I suggested he film the community instead—the grandmother selling flowers, the street vendor's story, the neighborhood's beating heart. He paused, understanding dawning. Heritage, we realized, becomes hollow when harvested alone.