Somewhere deep, dark, and very hard to find, would be a single room holding all of the Doctor’s reminders of his life and family on Galifrey. He would tuck it away somewhere where he would seldom have to pass. And when he does, he pauses. Forgets what he is doing, and stares blankly at the door, wanting so badly to enter, but wanting so badly to forget. And occasionally, when he is feeling exceptionally depressed, he enters that special room, and just sits. For hours. Thinking and remembering and being happy doing so. Eventually he gets up and leaves, repressing all of those pent up emotions to go wandering through space and time until he runs into something interesting. Something different and unique and mad and impossible. Something sufficient enough to occupy his time and mind enough to, even briefly, forget about his past sufferings and losses. To give him the opportunity to look for the present and the future, rather than his personal past.
Yet even then, in the back of his mind, that singular room is always calling to him; a slight echo of what used to be.