pray for me

Grandmother's frail fingers trembled as she clutched Kannadasan's worn poetry collection in Chennai's fading light. She'd memorized every verse decades ago, back when hope felt infinite. Now, watching her grandson scroll through PaybookClub on his phone instead of listening to her stories, something cracked inside her. "Pray for me," she whispered, not expecting an answer. He looked up, suddenly seeing her clearly—not as background noise, but as living history. Her words held generations of resilience, unspent wisdom waiting to bridge their worlds. He closed his phone. They sat together, threading past and present into something whole.