Layers of homes

Here is a bit of a story I've started. The germ came from walking down the street of an old neighborhood and noticing sidewalks that went to houses that no longer existed.
Little Tony lingered by the steps that no longer were at the house that had long since been gone. All that remained was a change in the sidewalk, the sidewalk that had been poured when the house still stood and the steps were needed. The grass and weeds had tried to break up the relic and had nearly succeeded. He stood motionless, except for his eyes that moved like a movie camera’s up the missing steps and stopped at the place door of the absent house should have been. Then he saw the absent house. It lay like a faded transparency over his own house, nearly blocking the view of his house except for the door. The doors of each houses was in the same place and through the faded oaken door of the absent house he could make out the green steel and fiberglass door of his own. He put his hand on the knob of the oaken door, turned it, and tugged. The door was stuck—it hadn’t been opened for many years, not since the house had been torn down to make may for a more modern subdivision. He tugged again, harder, with both hands locked on the ethereal knob. This time the door opened, slowly at first and then quickly, giving a soundless screech. The steel and fiberglass door opened effortless, allowing Little Tony into his own (that is, his parents’) house. He walked in and expected the aroma of dinner being prepared, but instead of catching the scent of his mother’s garlic and onions, he sneezed—once, twice, then to five times. Layered atop the garlic and onion aroma was the dusty smell of strong fish and sour cabbage.
“Mom! You know I can’t eat fish.” he called.