Dryad
Here’s a small passage I like, from my novel;
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Nik kept his eyes glued on his phone, away from his mother, who had elected to leave the trees and walk toward him on the trail. She was more landscape than person these days, mothers can be like that. But in a much more literal sense, Nik’s mother is actually like that. She stood enveloped soft white apple branches, blooming out of season. Her hair and fingers had gone to branch more recently, both curling and splitting on and on for longer than she tended to keep them as a human. Her ribs were roots, visibly entwined in her barken skin demanding to remind you that this person was once full of bones. A smattering of flowers over one ear and a large cumbersome display of a petal dress give the barest illusion of cloying innocence. Her eyes were gone long ago and her smile was dry with splintering wood, but even so, she sees and she smiles. Her thin arms were outstretched to her son, bending too far at the elbow.
She's getting worse.