Mark had been dating Sarah for a few months. She was beautiful, intelligent, and down-to-earth. But Mark had a confession; he always judged a person’s home.

He imagined her apartment would be like the other girls he’s dated, full of ikea furniture, a messy closet and a generic painting on the wall. He was in for a rude awakening.

When she invited him over, he was expecting the typical, modern apartment. What he found was anything but.

He stepped inside and was immediately struck by the uniqueness of the place. It wasn’t just the expensive furniture or the impressive art collection. It was the unexpected combination of modern design with vintage treasures lurking between the furniture.

Tucked away in a corner was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with first editions of classic literature. Mark, a book lover himself, was stunned. How could Sarah, who always seemed so in the moment, be such an admirer of the past?

But the surprises didn’t stop there. In the living room, behind a sleek, minimalist sofa, was a vintage grand piano. “You play?” Mark asked, astonished.

Sarah smiled shyly. “I used to. It’s been a while.”

That night, Sarah played for Mark. He sat there, captivated, not just by the music, but by the unexpected depth of the woman he thought he knew. It was a revelation. He had misjudged her, reduced her to an image, failing to see the rich tapestry of her life, her passions, and her history.

Mark realized that day that some people are like houses. You can’t judge a book by its cover.