The touch of the metal seat against my skin through my clothes was cold. It wasn’t a particularly hot morning; the day was bright and pleasant. I was made to wait and it seemed appropriate to engage myself in some sort of activity to pass time but before me was no more than a whitewashed wall, a clean whitewashed wall probably whitewashed several times over. Why would anyone arrange for seating facing a blank wall? No texture, no art, no dirt even. There was a lone nail in the wall but it bore no clock. Maybe it needed winding or repairs or management wanted a new look. I always wear a watch. It was a quarter to eleven. I stopped counting the seconds and started counting the dust bits that almost slowly moved, waltzing with one another in the single strong beam of ray that slanted in through the window from behind me. Why couldn’t it be in front of me? The day was pleasant and it would’ve made mine so too. After a while of straining my eyes, my mind started to wander. The gentle artistry of the dusty bits’ spectacle drifted me into my thoughts and I began to fine comb through them to see what filament I could find caught between the bristles; what pesky bug I could conquer or dandruff I could pick at. A few little knots tied ever so loosely on big bundles of past memory, experience and knowledge came undone. These were the fun ones. I eyed it no more than a few seconds before leaping head first into it. I played with its intricate inviting strings. I looped myself under and over and very soon lost track of everything physical. I trailed far down memory lane and stopped at a forming structure. I completed it, not with my hands but with every fragment of memory I held. It was a house, one that I knew very well. Houses are not like people, they’re easier to remember. It’s because people are flaky and change their minds too often. Houses don’t shift in any physical manner, let alone their mental frames of mind. People grow, move to new places and think it good; they call it an upgrade. But houses collect and store the lives you lived without taking it away from you. They have a heart. They have your heart. Its defined allotment inside and out, the complete fit, and the emotions you live in it, Form an equation that sticks its hand in your brain and leaves fingerprints of sand, For you to find when the home is what you leave behind. It was big and awkward. Left unpainted the bare cement smiled at me. The huge tree in front of it (The perfect toilet for street dogs) shaded its face from the bold sun. I climbed the stairs to the front door. It smelled like what a house would when you return to it after a long vacation. I had my hand on the doorknob. “Number 180”, shouted the clerk. Back to the time, I got up and proceeded towards the studio of the certified.