Moving out day is the day you realize your childhood bedroom was a museum you only lived in.

Rooms hold more than you notice while you are in them. The posters, the dents in the desk, the way the light came in at a certain hour: none of it registers as history until you are carrying boxes past it. Leaving turns an ordinary space into a record of a person you already stopped being.

If you still have access to a place like that, walk through it slowly once before it changes. Take a photo of the corner nobody would think to photograph. And if it is already gone, write down three small details you remember, because those are the ones that fade first.