Small black fine line tattoo of a hand with crossed fingers and a small flower, placed on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crossed fingers and flower on upper arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A small outline tattoo shows a hand with the index and middle fingers crossed, with a small flower and a leaf-like shape near the fingertips. The linework is thin and single-weight in black ink, with no shading. The design sits on the outer upper arm, centred in a close-up photograph against a plain skin background.

Fine line Upper arm Hand Flower Leaf

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lock keeper at Stoke Hollow swore the river would have her father by the second bend, so Nell walked the towpath with her fingers crossed behind her back, the way her grandmother had taught her to hold a wish. The barge Wren sat low in the brown water, its roof painted with green leaves and one tin tulip nailed above the cabin door. Her father stood at the tiller with his cap pushed back, singing a song about a miller's daughter that had no proper end.

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Nobody remembered who had planted the meadowsweet along the bank that year, but Nell picked a sprig each morning and tucked it into the rail. By afternoon the sky had gone the colour of pewter and the river was running faster than it had any right to. The rope snapped at the bow. The barge swung and took the current sideways, and Nell held the tiller with both hands while her father shouted over the roar of the weir that she should let go and jump for the bank.

She did not let go. She kept her fingers crossed, though she could not have said who she was asking, and the Wren slid past the broken gate with a grinding groan into the slack water below the lock. Her father was laughing, soaked and grey-faced, when they tied up.

The meadowsweet had gone over the side in the crush. Two days later the lock keeper brought it back, caught in the iron bolts of the gate, pressed flat and still pale yellow. He handed it to Nell without a word. She laid it in her father's old logbook, between the pages where he had written the name of every lock they had passed, and she kept her fingers crossed for the rest of the trip, out of habit or hope.