Surely he was a ghost already. Surely this was what it was like to live after death, to wander without seeing, and to go without knowing or purpose. Surely this was what it was like to be a spirit that had forgotten who he once was and why anything had happened to him. He breathed and touched things without feeling, and all the days blurred together like a dream he couldn't remember. Trying to think about it was like waking up -- everything disappeared as soon as he got close. It was the opposite of what the fog should be; when you neared things in the mist, they got clearer until you could touch them. Whatever white expanse he was walking through now, everything was all the same.
And so he went because there was nothing better and nothing worse to do. The habit and instinct that still occasionally propelled his body would remember from whence he'd come, and he didn't concern himself with the idea of getting lost anymore. There was no where he needed to stay away from, and no where he needed to be, so what did it really matter in the end where he actually was? He had grown thinner still, but it wasn't as if his ribs were showing. He fed himself when it was convenient, when he just happened to stumble over a carcass, fresh or old. The more important change was that his mind had grown thinner, emptier. This was what it was like to be a ghost. He wove through the forest like nothing was there at all, not even himself.