A boy on Crisanto Street picks up a camera to record his last days in the neighborhood before his family moves away. The footage is unpolished and personal: he walks familiar sidewalks, lingers on neighbors' porches, and films the small routines that make up his daily life, the corner store, a game with friends, the view from his window. There is no narrator explaining what any of it means; the boy's own choices about what to point the camera at become the film's structure, a record of what a twelve-year-old decides is worth keeping before it disappears. The short works as a piece of vernacular documentary, made by and about the person living the story rather than an outside filmmaker looking in. It captures a specific place at a specific, ending moment, and treats the ordinary details of a block, not a landmark or an event, as the thing worth preserving on film before it becomes memory instead of geography.