The good son.

[pvt_church]

Church trudges down a dirt path past row after row of stones, statues, small fences and shrines. For all the advancement in technoology and preservation, this cemetery liked to stay old-fashioned. The more modern graves are usually around the outskirts people don't see when they pass. He picks his way by memory through the stones, a small bouquet of daisies clenched in his left hand.

Eventually, he stops, kneeling next to a flat stone panel with a screen inset on the surface. "Hey, Mama," he murmurs reverently, placing the daisies to the right of the screen. "I'm home."