missing you already

The old pottery shards lay scattered across my desk, remnants from Keeladi's ancient excavation. Grandmother always said our hands carried ancestral memory. When Kannadasan visited last summer, he traced these fragments like reading sacred text, earning my respect through genuine curiosity about our heritage. Now, watching him leave for the city, I clutched his photograph. The despair mixed with bliss—grateful for moments shared, knowing friends drift like seasons. His absence stings, yet our conversations about preserving these stories kindled something eternal. In that pain lives connection, stretching backward through generations and forward into tomorrow, binding us all together.