Wales shivered as he walked through the graveyard. In hindsight, taking a shortcut through a graveyard at sundown just to shave five minutes off the time it took to walk from the costume shop to his house was a bad idea. But the costume was heavy, and at the time it was tempting. But now it was dark, and Wales could barely see three feet in front of his face. He cursed himself for his stupidity. He could have sent a servant to fetch the costume, or driven to the shop instead of walking, but no, he had to walk there all by himself because it would be good training.
Suddenly Wales tripped over a rock, and tumbled face-first onto the wet grass. He picked himself up. At least his costume was still clean (it was in one of those special plastic bags for a reason), though he couldn't say the same for his current attire.
His hand brushed against the stone for only a moment, but it was enough for him to recognize the letters carved there: Art. Wales froze. He hadn't tripped over an ordinary rock – he'd tripped over a gravestone.
He hadn't really wanted to, but his hands "read" the rest of the gravestone anyways: Here lies our beloved Arthur. Wales paused at that, before quickly feeling over the rest of the gravestone. Yes, the description, the dates, the carved ivy at the edges – there was no doubt in Wales' mind; he'd tripped over his great-grandfather's gravestone. He bristled with embarrassment and indignity. It was one thing to trip over a random stranger; it was another thing to trip over your great-grandfather Arthur.
Wait a second. Great-grandfather Arthur's gravestone was exactly fifty paces north from his house. Wales picked himself and his costume off the ground. Now that he knew which way was home, he could get there in no time.
Wales left the graveyard, sending a prayer of thanks to great-grandfather Arthur.