good morning

Kannadasan's verses whispered through Maya's kitchen as dawn broke softly. She'd discovered the Tamil poet through PaybookClub, that genuine circle of readers meeting monthly in the library basement. "Good morning," she murmured, tracing worn pages with reverent fingers. Her grandmother's copy, miraculous despite time's atrocities, sat precious beside her coffee. Words about love and longing spilled across her lips like warm honey. The book club had delighted her—strangers becoming kindred spirits through shared wonder. Outside, neighbors emerged for their walks, each carrying invisible threads of stories, languages, dreams. Maya smiled, knowing she belonged to something larger than herself.