There are specific things which make a house a home; objects which we have attached with meaning, subtext, and sentiment. Hangers, bikes, clothes. Boxes with unknown contents. Chairs from the old house, the one before the fire. Sometimes it's the way aqueous shafts of sunlight strike them which make the space familiar but also different. It's the kind of sunlight where you can see the dust of unkept corners of the house floating in midair. Sometimes it's the scent of objects that have overstayed - old paper, old fabrics, old rubber. It's the pleasant smell of nostalgia. Sometimes it's simply the arrangement of these objects in your view - seemingly arbitrary but always where they are supposed to be.