Already That House
I went for a walk at lunchtime. When the dog reached the entrance of an apartment building, it wagged its tail and went right in. Seeing it walk through a strange place as if it were its own neighborhood, I felt a real envy. The owner gave the leash a gentle tug and brought it back outside. The dog paused a moment, then headed for the entrance again. When the owner said, "That's not our house," the voice was half laughing. Come to think of it, I've done the same. Every building I walk into on the way to work is a different floor, but the corridors inside all look alike. That day I passed by three times and came back out once. The dog still seems to think that door is its home.
Toward evening in an alley, I once pushed at a stranger's front door. It was locked, and the cold feel of the handle stayed on my palm. That day, for some reason, I walked slower than usual.
The day you touched that door handle, I too gazed out my window a long while. Even after the sun went down, my place was just as it was.