I’ve only been to New York City once in my life, or maybe just a few more times than that. Once during the winter of freshman year, and definitely a few times during late summer, and a few more times during the fall. But the time I’d been during the summer and fall took place in middle school. I was twelve years old at the time.
Central Park, for various reasons, has always been my favorite place. It’s usually quiet, and it’s so large that there are endless routes to walk and see something different every day. Perhaps that is why I love it so much, or maybe it’s because of the people I met, who stand out so perfectly in my mind.

The day I met them was a day late in September, when I should have been in school. However, I had taken a break, and gone to New York City, to Central Park, to walk in peace. No one had ever bothered me there. It was almost like I was a ghost, a figment of their imagination. Or maybe they were a figment of mine. Who could be sure?

I had decided to go down a path less traveled, one hardly anyone my age took. It was the path to take if you were different, which I was. It was easy to stay hidden there, lost in a world so different from our own around us. However, it’s the same world, is it not? The only way it is different is the fact that you have to open your eyes to see what’s around you.

I was alone as I walked, as previously mentioned, and I was quiet. I listened to what was around me. People walking, birds chirping, squirrels everywhere. Leaves falling, wind blowing, water rippling. The distant sound of traffic far from me.

I heard a very aggravated voice coming from somewhere nearby. I hurriedly moved towards it. There, sitting on a rock, was a group of teenagers, a few years older than me. There were five of them. Two with black hair- obviously siblings- a dorky boy with glasses, a large blond boy, and a short redheaded girl. The black haired boy had an expression of disbelief clouding his features and his light blue eyes pierced the blond boy beside him, who was grinning like a madman.

“You broke my phone,” he said before looking back down at the pieces.

The blond boy shrugged and said something quietly, which I couldn’t make out. I stayed behind the tree, watching what would play out.

“So you broke my brand new phone? Thanks a lot,” the first boy answered, a furious look wiping away the disbelief.

“You’re welcome,” the blond boy said, laying back in the grass.

I watched this strange group of friends, who all seemed so close, as they finished talking about whatever it was they were talking about. They had been watching the sky for quite some time, and I looked up as well, seeing that the sun was setting, and that it was late afternoon. I stayed in my hiding spot, not wanting the friends to see me. They began to stand and drift away slowly, heading back towards the “Institute”, as they called it. I wondered briefly what it was, then figured that that was what they called their home. So was it a group of friends if they all lived together? It had to be.

The short redhead and the blond boy hung back behind their friends for just a moment, talking quietly. Whatever the short girl had said to the boy had made him laugh, and he gently kissed her forehead. She smiled up at him, saying another sentence.

“Remember, Clary Fray, what I said just a few months ago. All of the stories are true,” he said quietly.

“Jace! Clary! Hurry up!” the other girl had yelled, and they shared a smile before following their friends.

I returned to my classes shortly after that, which was where I should’ve been in the first place. Yet I was glad that I had skipped through most of the day, lost in a strange place between a dream and reality, unsure of which was true and which was a lie. But perhaps, as Jace had said so clearly just a moment before, all of the stories are true, which meant that my dreams could become my reality.

It has been years since I saw Clary Fray and Jace Wayland in Central Park with their friends, who were practically their family, yet I have never forgotten either of them. The words Jace spoke so quietly to Clary echo in my mind.

“All the stories are true.”

The idea of all these stories being true is something so rarely thought. Who could possibly find comfort in the idea that everything could be true? The stories of the Ancient Greek, the ghost stories, the stories of other things occurring that aren’t meant to occur. Hardly anyone would find comfort in such a thing, but I do. It means that there are other things out there, things that we couldn’t possibly imagine, save that one author who did imagine it. Anything is possible, and it’s just out there waiting for someone to discover it. If someone isn’t looking for it, isn’t open to possibility, then maybe it never could be discovered. Maybe things will forever stay a myth until that one person decides to take a risk and find something new with our world. After all, what could be the risk, if all of the stories are true?