Nobody is here. The truck left hours ago. The only thing waiting for you is a house that smells like nothing at all.

It is also the first place a landlord checks. So it was done twice.
The shower screen has no film on it — run a finger down the glass and nothing comes off. The grout went back to its own colour. The chrome on the taps holds a reflection, which it has not done since the week you moved in. Behind the toilet, where the mop never reaches, somebody knelt down with a cloth.
The mirror was done last, after the steam cleared, so there are no streaks across your face.

An empty room hides nothing. That is the whole difficulty of a move-out, and the whole point of it.
The square where the dresser stood is the same shade as the rest of the floor. Baseboards wiped along their full length, including the strip behind where the bed was. Closet shelves and rails dusted, closet floor vacuumed, door tracks cleared of the grit that collects for years.
Window sills, blinds, light switches, the top edge of every door. The ceiling fan blades, which is where most people stop looking up.
Two people. The same two, every job. They let themselves in at one o'clock and worked the house back to front so nothing finished clean got walked on again.
Put in the address you're leaving. We'll confirm the date and the two people coming.