Windows overlooking the street of quaint houses in neat rows like so many dominoes. Thatched rooves like witch’s hats, brick chimneys in a thousand different shades of red, from pale aquarelle to deep crimson.

A lion knocker mounted to the door, once a shining gold but now rusty and browning with age and use. So many hands, large, small, dainty, gloved, grasping the knocker to offer a greeting, or a condolence, or some homemade walnut brownies.

Soft carpet cushioning bare feet on cold mornings, narrow spiral staircase that creaks on the third step even when it is most inconvenient. Solid doors. Solid walls. Solid roof. Not-so-solid windows, for they must open to let the light and life into the house on sunny mornings.

Petite bedrooms, wooden bedstead carved with the shape of the sun. Patchwork quilts, bright hues all over the color spectrum. Lively gold. Serene turquoise. Calming fern. Tables and desks of oak, cluttered with books and paper and tiny figurines of animals in jewel-like colors.

Unkempt garden, tiny but bursting with plants of all colors and sizes. Cobble path leading through our own little jungle, a slice of paradise for those rare sunny days, to sit in the shade of a tree. To listen to the gentle swish of the branches and the chirps of the birds, to feel, just for a moment, serene.

Walnut-leather couch worn with time, beside the coffee-table that’s just the right distance away from the couch to rest your feet on, even though it’s not allowed. Bright curtains to soften the glare of the sun on days when it becomes unbearable, instead reflecting soft light in shades of blue and purple.

Small kitchen, bursting with sound and motion. Light streaming in through the windows, illuminating the colorful dishes and minor disasters spread around the kitchen. Wooden table, covered in a perpetually crooked tablecloth made from hundreds of scraps of material that others deemed unsalvageable.