Rzhevka is the only home I miss, a hideout at the end of the road, a history lesson; houses built by slaves from five different generations, steel works, datsas, artifacts in the soil, drunkards in 90's clothes, mud, snow, stray dogs, electric lines installed in 1954, fires, apple trees, cherry trees, wild nature, birch trees waving in the wind, names scraped into brick walls, DIY doors and gas pipes, empty beer bottles appearing on the yard at night, highway built over a village, a beautiful world hidden at the city limits.

Leaving Russia, a lonely Stalinka reaches its top floors above the highway to tell us "here it is". One last goodbye. In five seconds we pass the village in the night. The great memory lives there, under the bridge.

She plays piano in the bedroom, I look out from the kitchen window, past the gas oven. It's autumn in the north, but the last warm and sunny days coincided like a gift. I see an apple tree and semi wild nature around it, a fence and a street, and an electric pole black from a fire. Endless city starts from behind the fence. After 32 years I have finally entered the world.