At number eight, when she was eighteen, my grandmother lived. It was a house in the countryside, built from what was there. It had a tiled stove, a wooden table with chairs, a sideboard, a straw mattress, a wardrobe, a cross. For my grandmother, the house was always like someone from the family. It was the only one in the whole village that survived the war and outlived everyone else. Everything in it is as it was. As a child, I used to chase the sun there. And I still take pictures there, because apart from the world around, nothing has changed.