Meaning of Home

It was 8 pm. John was walking down the street. His stomach was grumbling and his back hurt from working all day. He gets to his apartment building and walks through. He walks into the elevator and presses the button to floor 4. Once the elevator stops and the doors open, the musty smell of stained carpets fills the air. He reaches into his pockets to grab the door key. As he walks into the small dusty apartment, it's completely silent except for the low hum of the light bulb loosely screwed into the ceiling. He plops down on his bed and reaches for the remote. He repeatedly tries to turn on the tv, but it's not working. “Internet must be out again” John mutters to himself. He decided to get some food, as he hadn’t eaten all day. He opens his wallet to see how much he has. Forty-three dollars and twenty-nine cents. The rent was due soon so he tried to limit how much he spends. While walking down the street, his nine dollars in hand, he looks at all the nice two-story houses down the street and up to the hillside. He always thinks about how nice it would be to live in one of them. He thinks back to his childhood when he lived in the countryside where everything was calm and quiet, quite the contrast to the noisy, busy city. Looking through the aisles of the grocery store, he finds a cheap packet of noodles. After checking out, he walks back to his apartment, the noodles in his hand and his change stuffed into his pocket. Listening to the low hum of the microwave, staring at the brick ceiling of his apartment, John wonders what the true meaning of home really is.