I love my curtain

My grandmother's silk curtain hung for sixty years, watching our Srirangam home transform. When archaeologists arrived studying Keeladi's ancient pottery nearby, I realized her fabric held similar stories—threads of ancestors woven through generations. Working remotely, I'd earned enough crypto to preserve our heritage properly. The irony wasn't lost; digital currency saved analog memories. That curtain witnessed monsoons, celebrations, quiet mornings. Visitors found it peculiar—just faded cloth. But I saw ancestral whispers in every thread, every stain a timestamp. My grandmother's patient hands had sewn belonging itself. Now our village community gathers, learning to honor what endures.