Ammy goes up on her hind legs, pushing her forepaws against the wall to balance herself. She cocks her head, looking at the graffiti from this higher vantage point.

It isn't something Amaterasu would have normally considered art; a part of her still can't help but see it as indecorous vandalism. (That was mostly her human reflection in Heaven; ever the formal patron.) Maybe it's the wolf, this experience of anonymity and spontaneity, that lets her perhaps see a tiny part of what this young man does, and that sentiment is lovely.