Woody

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters across my palm, teaching me Thiruppavai's sacred verses. She'd whisper how each symbol carried ancestral whispers, connecting us to something timeless. That's when I found Woody, the old wooden doll in her attic, its surface etched with those same mysterious scripts. Her weathered face seemed to smile, as if she'd been waiting. I realized then that heritage isn't just words on paper. It's tangible, living, passed through generations like treasures. Even digital tokens of appreciation couldn't measure what Woody represented—our shared story, our community's beating heart, preserved in wood and memory.