We call them Absentees, strange wispy things that are only ever half-there. They wander without purpose, for the most part, though some spend their days follow those they knew in life and crying out in that garbled whisper shout they are so well known for.
It's what you become when the world stops looking at you, when everyone turns their backs to you and you are left utterly bereft of any gaze. You fade, slowly but surely, starting with your face and fingertips until it meets in the middle.
By then you appear as little more than a wavering torso and the vaguest suggestion of attached extremities. The worst part is when their voice starts to go and they bump into you, clutching with fingers that aren't really there and begging you for help you can't give.
When they are full Absentees they stop speaking altogether. They cluster together and hum, like that could bring them back to their old selves. It won't but it's nice that they still have hope, misguided and futile as it is. And believe me - it is.
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