For the days you feel your own line as a thing that turns through generations, like the seasons cycling through the cherry and leaf of Ueno.

Deep blue with a wide, lineage gold. It rings like a full chord held open and smells of cedar and warm resin.

Your own line can feel like it ends with you, the seasons of it forgotten. It summons no one and revives nothing — it holds a wide place to feel your own line turning through its seasons, honored in your own way, with respect.