Untold

My grandmother's fingers traced ancient Tamil Brahmi characters onto my palm, each stroke a whispered ancestor calling across centuries. She never spoke their meanings aloud; some knowledge lived beyond words, in the trembling space between memory and longing. The violence of forgetting nearly claimed us. Yet when I finally carved those symbols into my own journal, something fractured open—a warmth spreading through my chest like recognition. My community saw. They gathered close, reflecting that same light back to me. In reclaiming what was almost lost, I discovered we weren't alone. Our heritage had been waiting patiently, threading through our blood, our stories, our very breath.