Every time when I leave France to go see my family in Russia I have a feeling I am changing worlds, not continents. So big and perceptible is the difference. After thirty hours of travel via the airports of Paris, Moscow and finally Vladivostok, my urban memory and the images of Paris give way to the emerging childhood memories of home. Each year I spend several weeks in our family house where I grew up, in the village lost in the Siberian jungle. Over the years, the house started to resemble that of Baba Yaga, a character from Russian fairy tales, a witch who kidnaps and eats children. It is especially true when a mysterious light animates the obscure night.