When people die, they become spirits of whatever they died of.
She sulked at the edge of the water, her hair floating wispy in the early breeze. It had been a long time since her toes had touched the pond, calm and gray. This is where she had died all those years ago. She had avoided returning, knowing it would hurt, knowing the pain would come rushing back. But here she was. Sitting at the ponds edge, watching the fireflies zoom just inches from the water and frogs croaking lazily from hidden edges, she thought about that day. It didn't really matter how she died, what mattered was that the air was taken from her lungs and had dictated her afterlife. Every day since then, she had been taken wherever the wind blew without any regard for her wants or wishes. The whole of her form was wispy and incomplete, easily waved away by a wayward branch or drop of rain. That's what being a wind spirit was. Wind spirits varied in how they dealt with being dead. All spirits were really. A light breeze came from gentle and kind spirits, while torn...