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My grandmother pressed the old photograph into my hands, her weathered fingers trembling slightly. "Keep this safe," she whispered, her eyes reflecting decades of Chennai's monsoons and festivals. I'd almost deleted it from my phone to make space for another app. How foolish. She'd survived recessions, losses, everything life threw at her. Her real wealth wasn't money—it was memory, resilience, family recipes written on yellowed paper. That evening, I documented her stories, shared them carefully with cousins scattered across cities. Not for likes or validation, but because some treasures multiply when distributed. Our heritage wasn't recession-proof until we made it matter together, until we chose preservation over convenience.