Black fine line tattoo of the word Always in cursive script beside a triangle, circle and line symbol, on the inside of a wrist.

Always script with triangle symbol on a wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black script word reading Always sits beside a geometric symbol made of a triangle, a circle and a vertical line on the inner wrist. The linework is thin and even, with solid black ink and no shading, and the skin tone is light and neutral. The tattoo is centred on the wrist with the background showing a workspace out of focus.

Lettering Forearm Always Script Triangle Circle Line Symbol Wording

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The pass closed at four, and by nine the snow had buried the step of the Hollin Rake Inn up to the knocker. You stood at the bar with the ledger open, counting Mrs Penhallow's candles, while the wind leaned on the shutters like a drunk asking for a room. Nobody had come up the lane since noon. That was the trouble with the old place: it only had guests when the road gave up on them.

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Her tin was still on the shelf above the hearth, where she had left it the morning she walked down to the valley for good. You had never opened it. Tonight you did. Inside lay three things wrapped in flannel: a flat triangle of slate, a silver ring worn thin on one side, and a straight rod of blackthorn no longer than your forearm. Beneath them was a card in her cramped hand. Always, it said, and nothing else.

You turned the pieces over in the lamplight and understood, slowly, what she meant. The slate went over the door lintel, the ring on the nail of the stair post, the blackthorn across the sill of the window that faced the pass. Each one a marker for a traveller who had lost the road. You did it by torchlight with snow down your collar, and when you came back in, the hearth had caught on its own, the way it only ever did for her.

Near midnight three slow raps sounded on the door. You opened it onto a man stamping white from his boots, his lantern guttering in the wind. 'Thought I'd lost the lane,' he said. 'Then I saw the stick in the sill.' You stepped aside and left the lamp burning, as she always had.