The second door, which looked more like a refrigerator door with that childish drawing hanging on it, led to a house, or perhaps an apartment. We literally emerged from a refrigerator falling to the floor of a simple kitchen.
The house was beautiful in its simplicity, cozy as a real home should be. In the kitchen, pots of different sizes and colors sat on what appeared to be a stove. The refrigerator didn't match the cabinets, which didn't match the kitchen paint; clearly nothing was planned, but rather added over time.
On the table were cutlery from different sets, different glasses. The kitchen was a different color from the hallway when we left, and on the walls were photos of different families.
My eyes scanned the walls and doors, finding handprints near the light switch, a broken corner of the wall near the floor, and even a photo with a cracked frame.
