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 hoped 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 moaned in cafes, horrifying the customers by scratching at the tables and begging for food, the golems stood idle. The small shell-like servants would prod the golems, demanding they act with authority, but the golems would fail to understand, as though they couldn't see the zombie at all.
The zombie staggered on, in search of an end to this limbo.