Once, this place was the soundtrack of my childhood. Between its towers and false castles, I learned to imagine. Valencia wasn’t just a city then—it was a stage where magic was real, and I was its smallest, most fervent believer. The sun struck those same walls, but everything looked different: vibrant, alive, echoing with children’s laughter and the promise that the world was endless. There were dragons carved in plastic, kingdoms drawn in pastel, and every visit felt like stepping into a dream that had no end.
Now, I return and find bones. The structures remain, stubborn and hollow, like a melody that once made you cry but now only hums in the background. The stained-glass spires are rusted cages, the fountains dry as parchment, the gardens gone to weed and silence. And yet, something plays beneath the rot: Nirvana scraping against my ribs, Alanis whispering from the corners, Chionapo bleeding through the cracks. These aren’t just songs—they’re ghosts. And this park is full of them.
There is sadness in ruins, but also honesty. This place, stripped of illusion, speaks with a different kind of voice now—raw, cracked, but still true. Once it shouted with color and crowds; now it whispers of things lost and things held on to. I realize I didn’t come back for the rides or the castle. I came for proof that I once belonged here, that the joy was real, and that even in decay, a place can remember being loved.
Time is cruel, yes, but also generous in its own way. It lets us look again. Walking through the broken facades, I am not only revisiting the park—I am revisiting myself. My belief in wonder, my teenage ache, my small rebellions and big dreams. Time strips paint and rusts bolts, but it also reveals the scaffolding beneath—what remains when the show is over and the lights go out.
There’s grace in what persists. In ruins and riffs alike. In the raw guitar lines that once defined our angst and in the cracked walls that remind us we once believed in castles. This place—abandoned, battered—still sings. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe the echo is the only proof we need that something beautiful was once alive here.
