Whoa, that sounds like the start of a legend, the kind of thing we’d trade with a drink at a rough inn. I once slipped into an old seaside pier that the town pretended didn’t exist—cracked planks, gulls that never leave, and a rusty carousel that still creaked when the wind hit the right spot. The whole place felt like a memory caught in the wind, like the park you’re describing. Did you hear any echoes from the rides? Maybe that old carousel has a story to tell you if you listen closely.