Detroit knows something about transformation—about raw material becoming something greater than itself—and Black Limba arrives in this city not as decoration but as a collaborator in that process, its golden brown heartwood darkening and deepening over time the way Des Moines taught us to appreciate, but here meeting the muscular ambition of a design culture rebuilding itself from the bones outward. Where Des Moines let the wood breathe in open, light-filled plains of space, Detroit's architects press those grey-to-black streaks and veins into service against industrial textures—exposed brick, blackened steel, poured concrete—where the contrast between the veneer's pale sapwood and its dramatically figured heartwood becomes a kind of argument about what beauty can survive. Rosebud supplies sheets selected specifically for this intensity of figuring, because a Detroit millworker or cabinetmaker reaching for Black Limba is rarely interested in the quieter, unfigured cuts that would earn the White Limba designation; they want the full vocabulary of the species, every dark vein earning its place against the city's unapologetic surfaces. And it is precisely this appetite for character—for wood that carries its own weather—that will feel so startlingly at home when we follow the grain north and east into the gentler, water-softened light of Door County.