Close-up of a black fine line script tattoo reading be still on the inner wrist of a raised hand.

Be still script on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A raised hand shows the words be still written in black cursive script across the inner wrist. The linework is thin and even, with the letters flowing left to right and filled in solid black ink. The background is plain and pale, with the fingers, dark red nail polish, a couple of rings and the edge of a maroon sleeve visible.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Ring Nail polish

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Margit had been told the 6.42 would be late, and she had decided, somewhere between the ticket barrier and the bench under the clock, that she would not be the one to say so out loud. The board above platform four blinked its amber dots and gave nothing away. Across the tracks a woman in a maroon coat was feeding coins into a machine that kept handing them back.

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Nobody on the platform was in a hurry except the boy with the trombone case, who kept lifting it, setting it down, lifting it again. Margit watched him in the reflection of the glass. Her hands would not settle, so she pressed them flat on her knees, the way her grandmother had taught her to sit through sermons and funerals, fingers loose, palms down. Her grandmother's phrase had been short and final. Be still, she used to say. The train knows where it's going.

The announcement came at last, half swallowed by the wind off the cutting. Platform three. Change of plan. Everyone shuffled, and the trombone boy ran. Margit stayed put for one more breath, thinking of the letter in her coat pocket, unopened, addressed in the same slanting hand that had written that phrase on the back of every birthday card she had ever been sent.

When the train pulled in she walked to the far end, where the doors opened onto the quiet carriage, and sat with the envelope on her knee and one hand flat over it. Outside, the signal changed from red to green with nobody watching. The carriage lurched forward. She did not open the letter. Not yet. Whatever it said had waited thirty years, and it could wait out the journey.