Black script lettering reading Every storm runs out of rain, curving across the outer thigh of a person lying on a bed.

Every storm runs out of rain quote on a thigh

Lettering · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a black script quote, reading Every storm runs out of rain, curving across the outer upper thigh. The cursive lettering has smooth, consistent linework with some heavier strokes, and the ink is solid black on warm brown skin. A pink garment covers the top of the frame and a light quilted bedspread fills the lower area, with the lettering as the clear focal point.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cloud came over the Scarrow Gap at noon, flat and grey as wet slate, and the mule planted its hooves at the last bend and would not be argued with. You sat on the refuge wall with your collar up, counting the drops that bounced off the flagstones, until Marta Venn, who had kept the hut for thirty-one winters, came out with two tin mugs and sat beside you without asking.

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"Three days, my father used to say, and then the mountain gets bored." She blew across her tea. "He was wrong about the days. It was four, the year the bridge went. But he was right about the boredom."

You laughed, which surprised you, and she nodded at the sky as if you had agreed to something. Below, the valley had vanished under a sheet of cloud. The noise on the tin roof went from a drum to a hiss, then to the separate, patient ticking of single drops. Out on the scree a ewe bleated, and Marta said that meant she had found her lamb again, which meant the storm had already started giving things back.

By the time the light turned the colour of weak milk, the cloud had lifted off the path in long torn strips. You stood up, stiff, and the mule shook its ears and started forward too, as if it had been waiting for exactly that. In the rut ahead, every stone held a small bright sky. You stepped over them one by one until the last puddle was only a shine on the track, with the blue showing through.

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