Clementine wasn't out of the woods, though she was much improved. Well, as much as 'improved' was for the little girl. Her breathing and her lungs would never be perfect, but they never had been to begin with. She almost had a permanent wheeze, her voice always a little hoarse around the edges from insistant coughing. Perhaps it had become white noise to Pierce now, or perhaps a comfort even if it was just a cough- that she was still breathing. That she hadn't died in her sleep.

But that was a morbid thought.

With a nursey book in front of her, Clementine lay on the ground with her back legs sprawled out behind her, her chin resting on her paws as her nose nudges the pages of the book to turn them, humming faintly as her little tail flicked and her ears wiggled as she read, going slowly through some of the more difficult words. Though she was young, her many, many... many weeks and hours in her isolated den had led to having a strong literate ability. Physically, she was weak in more ways than one, and socially, she was far behind the average. She didn't really know how to hold a conversation, or play with kids her age; much of her time was spent with Medics, with her father, or with the various adults that helped look after her. That was the life she knew, and under Peirce's dedication and care, she was much like him, his lessons passed on.

Of course, that wasn't to say she had her own rebellious streak, but she had also found a great measure of caution and restraint in her life. She wouldn't find herself jumping into anything without thinking twice on it, maybe even more.

Regardless, she flipped another page in her storybook to one of the songs that was printed in a careful hand in the margins. Though neither of them perhaps realized it right away- or at least Clementine was wholly unaware- this was one of Lottie's old books. Likely one of the ones she had read and sang to her own children, enough so that she had taken the time and care to write it all down in the pages itself, to pass it on to them when they grew. Of course, none of them did- but Clementine had no inclination of that, nor did she have any true idea of the song's meaning or melody.

Yet, curiously, she stared over the French words, softly mouthing the syllables to herself as her eyes scanned over the lines. There was no doubt it was some kind of song, or at least a poem... Clementine lingered on it for a moment before her mouth opened again, carefully whisper-singing a soft melody to the song, to try and avoid disturbing her father, or perhaps slightly embarrassed to be singing aloud; her French a little unsteady, but slowly mustering through the first few lines.

"L'était une petite poule grise...
Qu'allait pondre dans l'église;
Pondait un p'tit' coco...
Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud..."