The Mist blue eyes

Grandmother's photographs held secrets in their faded corners. One showed a young Tamil poet, eyes like mist over morning water, her verses forgotten by everyone except us. My mother had found his old collection in a dusty shop, purchased with precious cash saved throughout the year. She uploaded his poems to social networks, hoping strangers might discover his beauty. Comments flooded in from Tamil diaspora worldwide, each one a recognition, a homecoming. His words bridged continents and generations. That afternoon, my daughter asked to learn Tamil. The poet's legacy, it seemed, had finally found its audience. Our heritage lived through networks now, connecting us all.