-nana Natsume-- Direct

Years later, Ren is a man now. He lives in the city, in an apartment with good Wi-Fi. But on his desk, next to a sleek computer, sits a clumsy wooden cat. Its paint is gone. Its tail is still too long.

“Nana!” Ren gasped.

Ren touched the letters. “Did it work?” -Nana Natsume--

That was the last summer she was strong. Years later, Ren is a man now

And on its belly, next to the faded Natsume , are new kanji, carved with a careful, trembling hand: Its paint is gone

“Good,” she said, and reached into the pocket of her frayed cardigan. She pulled out a small, wooden cat. It was carved crudely, its tail a little too long, its ears uneven. “This was my komainu . My lion-dog. My father carved it the night the soldiers came to take him away. He said, ‘Natsume, as long as this cat has your name on its belly, you will be brave.’”