I was stacking the last of the boxes when a hush fell over the bungalow, as if the house were holding its breath to watch me go. Each cardboard square creaked into place like a small, final heartbeat. I kept finding myself tracing the outline of rooms with my mind - the kitchen where morning light used to pool on the counter, the porch swing that remembered every afternoon lullaby and every recollection made the knot in my chest tug tighter. I would miss this place more than anything.

The boxes were almost done, but I couldn't leave without one last look at Grandma's room. It felt like a waning ritual: to close one chapter properly, you had to walk its pages once more. I climbed the stairs with that awkward reverence you give old photographs, fingers grazing the banister where years of hands had left a worn, warm groove. The hallway smelled faintly of lemon polish and dust-house smells that somehow translate to "home."