When I visit my mother, I spend the night in my grandmother's apartment in my former nursery. Being there is like a journey through time, back to my childhood. Since then almost nothing has changed. Everything is still there. The old wallpapers from the 60s and 70s are still on the walls. The furniture is still in its usual place. The small carpet in the kitchen is missing, the traces it has left are clearly visible. The two massive wardrobes stand like silent, immobile guards in the bedroom. Time seems to have stopped there for me. I can still feel the presence of my grandmother there. I used to travel a lot, but she always said: "Home is the most beautiful place". Today I often think: Maybe she was right? Are these feelings of home?