good morning

Amma woke at dawn, fingers trembling as she typed her first Tamil poem onto the glowing screen. Decades she'd kept verses locked inside, written only in fading Tamil Brahmi notebooks beneath her pillow. Her granddaughter had shown her this platform where words earned real rupees. "Good morning," she posted simply, sharing a poem about jasmine flowers and monsoon memories. By afternoon, hundreds had laughed, marveled at the miracle of her ancient script meeting modern payment. Strangers called her gorgeous, scientific minds praised her imagery. But what moved her most wasn't the money. It was belonging—finally seen, finally heard, her grandmother's voice echoing through generations.