They do not announce their arrival. They appear as if the forest has been holding its breath. At first glance, they could be mistaken for mushrooms—soft, mottled, almost still. Story claims they were mushrooms once, before slipping sideways into their translucent existence. What we call toxic often feeds them; fragments of plastic are among their favorite snacks. For them, contaminated ground is not a wound but a feast. When they meet something unfamiliar, they pause, considering. If it is too much for one, they call to others, and then the ritual begins. What they absorb reshapes them: some poisons pass in a day, others linger for years, and some remain forever, etched into their skin like scars of memory. Each summer they return. Myths say they reunite with mushrooms. On bright days they gather in open fields or on the still waters of lakes, living archives unfold, carrying the memory and myths of every landscape they have touched.