line in

Grandmother pressed the ancient Tamil Brahmi script into my palm, her weathered fingers trembling with pride. Each symbol held centuries of whispered stories, of ancestors who carved dreams into stone. "You're next," she whispered, sweetheart-soft. I'd earned enough PAYBO rewards to finally attend the heritage workshop I'd promised her. As I traced those sacred characters, something bright awakened within me—a bridge between her world and mine. That evening, surrounded by others learning our language, I understood. We weren't just preserving symbols. We were keeping hearts beating, keeping line in with those who came before, ensuring our children would know where they belonged.