Painted drawing of a cherry blossom branch with pink flowers, buds and green leaves on a grey stem, shown as a tattoo design without any body placement.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cherry blossom branch design

Botanical · Colour · Flash

A branch of pink cherry blossom flowers, several closed buds and green leaves climbs diagonally across a white background. The grey branch has a dark outline and the petals are shaded with soft pink washes and light highlights. The composition is vertical and open, with the flowers spaced evenly along the stem.

Botanical Cherry blossom Branch Flower Bud Leaf

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mab came down the back stairs of the bakery in her stockinged feet, carrying the lamp, because the flour sacks had been moved in the night and she did not want to put her shin into one again. The ovens were already ticking as they warmed. Her father had always said the bread knew when the baker was tired, and it had been a long winter for the pair of them.

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On the scrubbed bench by the proving trays lay a branch that nobody had brought in. It was grey as a wet road, with a crooked spine that climbed from the flour bin towards the high shelf, and along it grew pink flowers opened wide, five petals each, with a few tight buds at the tips waiting for a warmer day. Mab set the lamp down and touched one. It was cold, and it smelled faintly of rain and of the river.

The old women of Hollin Street would tell you that a branch left at a bakery door before dawn means the oven will not go cold until the one who left it comes back for it. Mab did not believe them, but she did not throw it out either. She took her knife and scored a loaf the way her father had taught her, with five quick cuts that opened into petals, and she slid it into the heat beside the others.

When the first light came grey over the chimneys, the loaves were out and cooling on the rack. The branch was gone from the bench. In the frost on the step outside, there was one set of boot prints walking away towards the bridge, and on the flour by the door lay a single pink petal, dry as paper, that did not blow away when she breathed on it.