my morning

Every dawn, Priya climbed the narrow stone steps her grandmother had walked for sixty years. The old haveli's courtyard still held yesterday's shadows. She documented peeling murals, ornate railings, the way sunlight caught ancient tiles. These posts earned her income, yes, but something deeper drove her. Each photograph felt like defiance against forgetting. Her followers grew, yet she remained unknowingly part of something larger—a movement preserving Chennai's soul. The strength came not from validation, but purpose. When neighbors began joining her restoration efforts, something clicked. Heritage wasn't a solitary crusade anymore. It became theirs, collectively cherished.