good morning

Amma woke before dawn, her weathered hands tracing ancient Tamil Brahmi script in her leather journal. Each letter was a meditation, a conversation with poets long gone. She'd spent forty years teaching, expecting nothing, giving everything. That morning, a former student left flowers at her door with a note: "Your words changed me." No strings attached, just gratitude flowing back. Amma smiled, understanding finally that real wealth isn't recession-proof; it's recognition. The special feeling of touching lives, of passing down heritage through stories and script. She'd cheated no one, only herself, by forgetting her impact. Her community remembered.