A Snowy Night at Stonehouse Cemetery

A Snowy Night at Stonehouse Cemetery

The snow crunched under my boots as I made my way through the quiet streets, the city lights glowing faintly behind me. It was one of those winter nights where the world seemed muffled, the fresh snow absorbing sound and creating an eerie stillness. I had set out for an evening walk, camera in hand, with no particular destination in mind. But as I turned a corner, I found myself in front of Stonehouse Cemetery.

The name itself felt fitting—etched into the cold stone of a solitary grave marker standing against a backdrop of leafless trees. The monument, partially buried in the fresh snowfall, bore a name that seemed as if it had been there forever, resisting time and the elements. The dim glow from nearby streetlights cast long shadows across the snow, adding an almost ghostly presence to the scene.

I raised my camera, adjusting the settings to compensate for the low light. A slow shutter speed captured the faint glimmers of light reflecting off the snow, while the branches above twisted into haunting silhouettes. The result was an image that felt frozen in time, much like the cemetery itself.

There’s something about cemeteries in the winter—they feel more forgotten, more isolated. The world moves on, but here, beneath layers of ice and snow, history sleeps undisturbed. I stood there for a while, listening to the stillness, letting the quiet wrap around me like a heavy coat.

Eventually, the cold urged me to move on. But as I left, I glanced back once more at the Stonehouse marker, now partially obscured by drifting snow. It was a moment that reminded me why I love photography—the ability to capture these fleeting, unexpected encounters with the past.

That night, I walked home with cold hands and a full memory card, knowing I had just captured something special.