You find yourself in the hallway.
To your right stands a plain wooden door, its purpose not yet revealed. Beside it, a set of shelves bears the clutter of student life: a bucket of paint, an umbrella, a dog-eared phone book, unopened letters, and the usual scatter of things not yet sorted. Above, a hook carries a heavy leather jacket, a coat hanger, and another umbrella.
Ahead, the corridor stretches beneath a shallow arch. Beyond it, the faint outline of stairs begins its climb, with the cellar door tucked beneath. A bare doorframe, its door long removed, leads further still. At the far end waits an elderly vacuum cleaner, loyally stationed beside the opening to the kitchen.
To the left, almost unnoticed against the white wall, is a discreet panel concealing the electrics. Beneath your feet the flooring changes from one patch to the next — four kinds at least, each layer a reminder of earlier tenants and their choices.
From here you may step onward through the corridor, investigate the wooden door, or turn to view the front door.