Once, we were in a different house. In a different country, with a different culture, different social norms, different foods and environs. We had lived in an apartment block 20 stories high, and we were just a few levels below that limit. Our home was very similar to all the others in the bloc, except perhaps a few extra rooms, considering the size of our family. It had a floor like marble and tough concrete walls and ceiling that prevented noise from other flats from reaching us. We had windows with safety bars installed so that we as children did not climb out. The home was technically the government's, and loaned to us for 99 years, but in the mind of a young child such as mine, it was ours. We were never dissatisfied with it, never had aspirations to move into another house. We were just fine with the house we lived in, the house five minutes away from our cousins, five minutes away from good food, and a short elevator ride from our friends. It was one of the best lives we could have possibly led. Until we moved out, moved away. But even then, after everything, the saying goes: Once a home, always a home.