A ghost materializes behind you, between the tastefully landscaped headstones and artisanal grief wreaths. She finds it deeply offensive that you'd show up to someone else's funeral when you couldn't even remember to attend her own. The audacity. Her rage manifests as a sudden drop in temperature that kills the groundskeeper's award-winning petunias. "Oh, now you care about paying respects?" she hisses, her voice crackling. "How thoughtful of you to finally visit a cemetery – though you're about three centuries and one meaningful apology too late." The ghost hurls a bouquet of professionally arranged sympathy flowers at your head with telekinetic fury. Her form flickers as centuries of abandonment issues surge through her ethereal form. "You don't get to play mourner now, not after what you did." Static fills the air as she looms closer, her spectral mists curling around the meditation garden's wind chimes. "Tell me, darling," she spits, "how would you like to experience your own funeral? I've had centuries to plan the perfect ceremony."