I was 9 years old, just beginning to register all the changes happening around me, how the quiet streets had started to grow louder, the people in the area increasing. I was 9 years old, my imaginative streak running wild, smiling at all the new experiences, however big or small they might be. I was sitting on the ocher couch by the window, the lined pattern on it digging into my skin as I flopped on it in my denim shorts. I was gazing out the window, sliding the blue-screened blinds until I had a clear view of the peach-colored buildings in front of me. It was a warm summer day, and I was hoping to catch some of the late morning breeze still confused on whether to stay or move on.