Hover silently across the stage or walls, twitching unnaturally. May mimic old blocking directions or repeat whispered lines from lost plays. Sometimes appear upside-down or sideways, as if still following the instructions of long-dead directors.

The puppeteers of the forgotten play. Shadows bound in silence.

> At first, it’s just the creak of old wood and the twitch of rope. Then, from the rafters and curtains, they emerge — half-seen figures in tattered black, with arms too long and heads bowed low. Their faces are veiled beneath porcelain masks cracked down the center, frozen mid-expression: sorrow on one side, silence on the other.

> Thin ghostly strings rise from their wrists and shoulders, disappearing into the darkness above — yet no one pulls them. Their movements are jerky, uncertain… until Kaelen raises his baton. Then they move in perfect time.

> They glide across the floor soundlessly, mimicking forgotten stage cues: holding phantom props, drawing invisible curtains, lifting rusted chains. Sometimes they bow. Sometimes they reach for the players. Always without a word.

These spectral beings are not malicious by nature — they are echoes of backstage souls who never stopped performing. The longer they remain, the more their forms dissolve into sheet music and ash