Some weeks you feel a quiet pull back toward your own beginnings, and need a kept, unhurried place to answer it, like the lantern-lit old lanes of Asakusa.

Deep indigo, grounded and old. It has the weight of a wool coat and the long, settled scent of old paper and cedar.

A pull toward your own roots can go unanswered all week for lack of a place. It calls no one and conjures nothing — it holds an old, kept place to tend your own line, in your own way and with respect.