The network called Home

In my building there's a Wi-Fi network called "Home". No flat number, no surname, no witty neighbour pun. It's been there since I moved in.

I asked at the residents' meeting: nobody claims it. The guy on the second floor, who installs routers, went up and down the stairs with his phone in his hand, reading the signal like a water diviner. It's strongest on the third-floor landing, he said, but nobody has lived on the third floor for years.

I would have forgotten about it, if not for the detail of the moves. When the family on the fifth floor left, "Home" showed full coverage for three days. Same when the old lady on the first floor died: that week, full bars everywhere, even down in the entrance hall.

Last night, with my cardboard box by the door and the lease on the new flat signed, my phone asked me something I didn't know how to refuse: "Join Home?". There's no password. There never has been. You only have to want in.