The legend was written by an unknown individual who heard stories of Shine Hill.
In the quiet suburban heart of Mount Prospect, Illinois, just off Rand Road, nestled within Hill Street Park, there lies a patch of land whispered about by night joggers and old locals—the place they call Shine Hill. Long ago, or perhaps not long at all (for time folds strangely around Shine Hill), a group of unnamed individuals appeared—no one saw them arrive, and no one knows from where. They built no houses, planted no flags. But they shaped the land. Not with machines, but with quiet hands and silent tools, leaving no trace but beauty behind. The grass on Shine Hill never overgrows, yet no mower is ever seen. The flowers bloom out of season, in colors that shimmer like old glass. Children say the squirrels there talk in riddles, and the breeze smells faintly of honey and cedar. A soft glow—barely perceptible—sometimes rises from the hill under the moonlight, hence the name. These caretakers are called The Ranchers, though no one knows who coined the name. The Mount Prospect Park District (MPPD) denies their existence, chalking up sightings to overactive imaginations or tricks of light. But night after night, signs appear: freshly swept paths, hand-carved benches with intricate symbols, saplings supported by woven twine that no one recalls planting. The Ranchers do not seek thanks. They shun recognition, melting away like mist when flashlights sweep the dark. Some say they wear robes made of leaves, others swear they've seen them vanish into trees. A retired ranger once found a book on his porch—leather-bound and etched with silver vines. Inside, it contained the park’s entire history, including events not yet occurred. He never spoke of it again. Those who speak too loudly of Shine Hill find the memories fade—names forgotten, dates blurred, voices muffled by the rustling wind. It's as if the hill itself protects its keepers. They say Shine Hill remains because of them. That without the Ranchers, the park would fall into disrepair, and something much older and darker—buried beneath the hill—would awaken. So remember, when you walk the quiet paths of Hill Street Park and the wind brushes your cheek like a breath: you're not alone. Tread kindly. Watch the trees. And if you find a flower growing in the shape of a spiral, know that the Ranchers were there.
And they are still watching.