Almost same size as my fist

Grandmother held the pottery shard against her weathered palm, eyes glistening. Excavated from Keeladi's ancient soil, it matched her fist perfectly. "Avvaiyar walked these streets," she whispered, remembering the saint-poet's wisdom about simple living. Her grandson scrolled through his phone, distracted by social networks and fleeting digital currency. She pressed the artifact into his hands. "Feel this," she urged. "Real wealth." For a moment, he understood. The ceramic connected them across centuries—to artisans, to Avvaiyar's teachings, to something money couldn't buy. He smiled warmly, pocketing his phone. Their shared inheritance lay in his palm.