Saint Mary's Park
St. Mary’s Park stands as Midtown’s quiet, imposing heart—a mix of beauty, memory, and unshakable sorrow. To the casual passerby, it might just be another city park, with towering trees lining the walkways and benches scattered under leafy canopies. Yet, there's a certain stillness here, like the place is holding its breath. Residents say it’s hard to walk through the park without feeling like someone, or something, is watching.
At its core, St. Mary’s Cathedral rises like a sentinel, a gothic structure that casts sharp, looming shadows across the lawns. With its stone-carved saints and stained glass, the cathedral almost seems out of place, as if it belongs to another era, a distant world. The faithful come in hushed reverence, and even the nonbelievers can’t help but feel a pang of awe as they walk past. Many speak of an unearthly silence within the cathedral that amplifies every whispered prayer, every rustling movement.
Adjacent to the cathedral lies the park’s graveyard, sprawling under dense foliage and shielded from direct sunlight, even on the brightest days. The cemetery's old iron gate is twisted with ivy and guarded by statues worn smooth by time. Names on the gravestones fade under years of weathering, and the air smells faintly of damp earth. It’s a peaceful place, yet oddly unsettling—some swear they’ve seen mist hanging here even when the rest of the city is dry, and strange murmurs linger, like voices carried by the breeze.
The park is mostly avoided after dusk. Rumors say that the dead don't sleep easy in St. Mary's, and tales of fleeting shadows and echoing footsteps keep most Midtown residents from lingering too late. To the average citizen, St. Mary’s Park is a blend of beauty and danger—a place to visit, but always with a mind to leave before the park starts whispering back.
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