You stand at the far end of the hallway, looking back towards the front door.
To your left is a plain wooden door, while on the right a small white cabinet hides the electrics. Ahead, the front door admits a softened light through its wavy glass panes. A coconut mat lies at its foot, the sort that has seen many pairs of muddy shoes. In one corner a bundle of cables pushes awkwardly up through the floorboards, as though the house itself had grown impatient with order.
The door bears its share of fittings: a letter slot at the bottom and, screwed into the wood, an elderly electric bell that seems as if it might once have rung with some enthusiasm.
From here you may leave by the front door, open to the plain wooden door, or simply turn towards the corridor behind you.