The zombie shambled from town to town, rejected by people, ignored by golems. Through its eyes, everything was dull, colourless, lifeless – and likewise, its own body appeared to others drawn and drained. It survived on leftovers outside restaurants, gifts from aghast onlookers, and often just eating the raw soil and plants straight from the ground.

It had lost part of itself. It had been someone. A person. But now it was reduced to bare instinct, making crude decisions only by what it could see and hear. A puppet, a shell with the memories of life.

It had thought that, sooner or later, a golem would come and obliterate it. Mash its tired bones and free it from grey misery. But the golems simply didn’t understand. Even when its haggard form clung to the tables of outdoor restaurants, horrifying the customers by scratching at the tables and begging for food, the golems stood idle. The small shell-like servants would prod its feet, hassling the golem and demanding it to act with authority, but it would fail to understand, as though it couldn’t see the zombie at all.

The zombie staggered on, in search of an end to this limbo.