Nana
Ivory was spitting on paper when Nana woke up.
Small, careful spits. Fingertip-sized. She'd press the wet patch onto a torn edge, hold it, blow on it, then stick the next piece into place. The spit dried clear and hard.
"What are you doing?"
Ivory flinched. Two pieces fell apart.
"Reconstructing." Her voice was thin. "That creature shredded my—they're my notes, Nana-chan, and that little menace cut them into—"
"Use tape."
"What is tape."
Nana found it in the desk drawer and tossed it. It hit Ivory in the face.
"Ow."
"You're two hundred and fifty-six. Catch better."
Ivory peeled the tape off her cheek and pressed a strip over two fragments. The writing on them wasn't Japanese. Not English either. Characters that curved where Japanese cut straight, with dots above certain clusters.
"What language is that?"
"Hm? Old language. Dead now."
"Dead how?"
