Light traffic fills the background, giving depth to a place that would otherwise seem flat now that the life that gave breathe to this place is gone.
Boxes stand ready.  Boxes in which to put the things, the stuff that is collected to show a life well led.
How much of what is hoarded actually has meaning?  How much was just set aside until it was possibly needed?
The first box is full.  Items now carefully stored and ready to be shipped.
Will what is left ever have the meaning it originally held?  Can it be found by someone who doesn’t have the same attachment and memory?
Another box, different items, different records and memories, now all jumbled together and packed out of sight.
Wonder the reason it was all kept in the first place?  To remember as a keepsake? Is it still a keepsake?  How can it be remembered now that the person who was attached to it can no longer reach it?
Another box, this one full of childhood friends once held dear and whose names are likely long forgotten.  They are all now too tattered and damaged to have value easily found by another.
Now the books and stories collected later.  Some surely with the thought to be passed on in a now impossible future to those that can never exist.
Clothes that were worn everyday, making them closer than friends, are now discarded without consideration.
Bigger items like furniture are taken more so than anything else, having been assessed early for their worth and possibilities.  Taken so that they might witness new lives and memories to repeat the cycle.
No boxes left, all done now.  Walls simply holding empty rooms which contain the echoes of memories that will slowly fade as the dust settles.
Nothing left now, a life in pieces to be slowly erased.