When I first took my two girls to my grandparents' abandoned and ruined house in 2007, I wanted to share something about my grandparents with them. But, unfortunately, I didn’t know any stories. I never met them, my father passed away when I was only 5, and my mom didn’t know much, leaving me with very little. The carving on a stone above the entrance became a clue to the stories I managed to uncover. My grandfather, Yervand Barseghyan, was born in 1898 and faced incredible hardships throughout his life. I don’t know anything about his childhood. His story starts in 1941 when he began building a home for his large family—his wife Varsenik, their two sons Artavazd and Shavarsh, and four daughters, Taguhi, Siranush, Haykush, and Emma. But fate had other plans. In 1942, he was drafted into World War II and soon became a prisoner of war, spending three years in a German concentration camp. His skill as a shoemaker was the reason his life was spared; the German officers gave him a Singer sewing machine modified for leatherwork to repair their boots. On May 9, 1945, he was liberated and made the long journey back to our village, carrying that same sewing machine over 3000 miles. He continued to mend shoes for his fellow villagers until he passed away. Tragically, my grandparents' eldest son, Artavazd, who had been drafted before his father, didn't return from the war —a wound that never fully healed. In 1947, Yervand completed the construction of his house and carved the completion date above the entrance, alongside a dove symbolizing peace. After my grandfather's death, my father, Shavarsh, took over the land. A distinguished professor at the Yerevan Polytechnical Institute, his life was cut short at 44. I inherited the land and house when I was just 5 years old, following my father’s passing. My childhood and teenage summers were spent mostly in the village before I moved to the States. In the early 1990s, after the collapse of the Soviet Union and as poverty reached staggering levels, a rumor spread that Singer sewing machines contained precious metals. Shortly after, my grandfather’s sewing machine was stolen from this house. In 2015, I decided to remodel the house, infusing it with new life so my children could spend the summers in Armenia, in my village. I couldn’t tear the whole thing apart and build a new structure; this old and crumbling house seemed to be my only connection with my past and my ancestors. So, I preserved it. And, believe it or not, it has a fantastic energy that anyone can feel.