Black script tattoo of the word Faith with a small yellow ribbon above the letters, placed on the upper chest near the collarbone.

Faith script on upper chest

Lettering · Chest · Mixed · Photo

A close photograph of the word Faith written in flowing black script across the upper chest, just below the collarbone. The lettering uses bold and fine strokes with shaded edges, and a small yellow ribbon sits above the letters. The skin tone is warm and the background is a softly blurred indoor room.

Lettering Chest Faith Word Script Ribbon Collarbone

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The F took Ruth three evenings to get right, and by the third she had stopped measuring it with her thumb and started measuring it with her breath. Her father had sign-written half the shopfronts on Harrow Lane and never once let her touch a brush larger than a number four. Now he lay upstairs with the window open, listening to the tap of her boots on the floorboards, and every so often he called down to ask whether the loop of the F had closed yet.

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The commission was a glass panel for the new chapel hall in Cutler's Bridge, a single word in black with a gold ribbon of leaf running above it, the sort the vicar wanted so the children would know what the building was for. Ruth had drawn the letters four times on tracing paper. The fourth drawing was the first her father didn't correct, and he said only that the a had to lean as if it were walking into wind.

She painted the word backwards on the reverse of the glass, so the front would show it clean, and each stroke went down in one pull. The h was the hardest. Its tall stem wanted to lean and its shoulder wanted to curl, and she kept her wrist loose until the ascender rose above the rest like someone reaching for a shelf. The ribbon was the last thing, a single gold stroke tied in a loose bow that caught the lamp.

Her father died the week the panel went up. At the blessing, the vicar read the word aloud from the front of the room, and Ruth watched the afternoon light come through the glass, black strokes against the window, the gold above them just bright enough to notice. Nobody in the pews knew which hand had made it, and she found she did not mind. He had always said a sign was finished when it stopped being yours.