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 tornadoes and gale force winds were cruel and usually angry about being dead. Much like in their lives, wind spirits could change from being a draft to a storm in moments.

The wind picked up from a breeze to a light gust. She could feel the tension swelling in her chest, the anger rising. Cattails whipped wildly. She stood suddenly, it was too much. Without a second look she turned from the ponds edge and disappeared into the birch grove that lined the edge of the bond and marsh. Branches whipped through her arms, causing them to dissipate temporarily, the wind pushing her along away from the place she hated most.

-This piece is unfinished. The cold medicine kicked in and I'm headed to bed- 

Writing prompt found:
https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/adnkyz/wp_when_people_die_they_become_spirits_of/