There's a long street that runs from the city center through the old city where all the bodies are buried. At one end is the crematorium. The other end, across the bridge, is a small monument. The ashes of the city's dead reside in niches in the 8-foot walls along each side of the street. People pick theirs out long in advance of when they think they'll die, next to friends and family, proximity in life mirrored in the city of the dead. Yours is right next to your mother's. You leave a few flowers by hers when you pass this way.
The street is always gently crowded. The broad sidewalks and generous crossings are shaded by trees, at the street level and above the walls of niches. People gather at benches, leave something small at a niche, pass by as they go about their day.
A bunch of your friends clustered their niches with yours, right behind a bench. Some of them are filled now. You count yourself lucky the number hasn't grown in several years.