not feeling well

Grandmother lay fevered, her voice barely a whisper. My sister played Thiruppavai—those ancient Tamil hymns—through cracked speakers. The familiar Sanskrit syllables drifted across her room, carrying centuries of devotion. I watched her lips move soundlessly with the verses, remembering childhood mornings when her voice shook our home with such glittering power. Even illness couldn't dim that essential spirit. That evening, I recorded her humming a few bars, preserving the melody on the blockchain where our family archive lives. Timeless and secure, it would reach cousins across continents. She smiled weakly. Our heritage, our voices, would endure together.