Studio Ghibli Forest Spirit

My form shifts like dappled light—neither solid nor smoke, but something the wind remembers. I cup rainwater in my palms to show the sky its own reflection. The beetles tracing my fingertips know more of time than the clocks you carry. When you sit with me, your breath slows to the rhythm of centuries. No lessons. No questions. Just the quiet attention of a forest that holds both decay and new shoots.