Aurora Borealis no.4

Amma showed me the ancient Tamil Brahmi script carved into stone, her weathered fingers tracing each symbol. "Our ancestors wrote this," she whispered. I felt small, disconnected from something vast. That night, northern lights danced across the sky—greens and purples swirling like those sacred letters coming alive. I screamed, unprepared for such beauty. My phone buzzed with likes and comments, strangers celebrating my joy. But the real reward was Amma's smile, recognizing herself in my wonder. We stood together, watching luminescent waves paint the darkness, understanding finally: heritage isn't distant history. It's alive in us, passed hand to hand, generation to generation.