An address is fixed to the ground. Home is pitched fresh, every day, wherever the two of you happen to stand. Bring your light to theirs and hold still.
two lights, apart.
An address is a fact about land. Home is a fact about people. Only one of them survives a move.
You can tell them apart with a simple test. When they are away, the rooms are all still there, and the home is not. It comes back through the front door with them, carrying groceries.
It is made of small repeated choices. Someone remembers how you take your coffee. Someone learns your rhythms and keeps them. Someone watches you fall apart at the kitchen table and is still there in the morning. None of that requires an address. All of it requires staying.
So the name on this door is not a metaphor. It is a set of directions.