When the TARDIS regenerated, she kept Rose's bedroom. He didn't know that at first. He thought he had lost the last trace of his pink and golden flower, the last remnant of her scent.
The first night of loneliness, when his new stray slept in her silver bed and he wandered and wandered seeking the garden, she led him there. He saw the door, first, closed as though Rose could still be there, sleeping. She had taken to leaving it cracked open in the last days so that he could come and hold her when the nightmares came calling. No cracks today.
A tear shimmered in his eye as he looked up to the ceiling and whispered, half sarcastically, "Oh thanks, dear." But he couldn't keep himself from looking inside.
What had changed? A golden-sheeted bed, left unmade since that fateful day at Canary Wharf. Strands of blonde hair gleamed at him from the pillow which had long since lost the indentation of her head.
He walked slowly over to the bedside table where the lamp stayed lit, waiting for her to come home. A picture in a frame, her and the other him, the Doctor-that-was, the Doctor-that-would-be, the man currently sharing her heart and home, smiling through the frame and striking his hearts. One skipped a beat, the heart that would always belong to her.
This Doctor, the new-new-new one, sat on the golden bed with a sigh that would have broken her heart.
Nothing left. Nothing that mattered.