Watching the world pass by unfiltered through the open window on the bus ride home, I caught the attention of the wind seeping in. You’ll never change me, it seemed to say, never change beyond the path you walk between routine and comfort. The old woman and young boy behind me nodded at the notion, the naivete of youth and the regrets of age making their opinions heard. You’re right, I said. Nor do I want to. I’m just here for the ride. Through the corner, the wind began again: But the world is ripe, and on my heels you might never know the definition of surreal or surrender. After a moments thought, I offered my response. I remember the path behind me and know the one before me, as well as the prize waiting in the window above the driveway. What more I might know is of no interest, for the sound of familiar laughter is beyond price. The woman and boy waited silently for the wind’s rebuke, but after a slight muttering at the next stop, no more protest did it proffer. Somewhere below the surface of the water passing by, turtles blinked their approval below disagreeing trees swaying in the dark, but through the window, the movement of the branches seemed dishonest and a little tired. It wasn’t until later that night, moments before sleep took me, did I hear from that harbinger of secrets again, and even then the only words mustered were a half-silent, Good night.