Small fine line tattoo of a leafy sprig with berries in black ink on the side of a ribcage, with a hand resting nearby.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line sprig tattoo on the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A delicate black linework sprig with a single leaf and several small round berries, drawn on a diagonal across the side of the ribs. The lines are thin and even with light, open shading, and the piece is entirely black ink on pale skin. The close crop shows the tattoo centred on the torso, with a hand with dark painted nails and a dark knitted fabric in the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ship is already loading when you reach the harbour at Ostia, and the sprig of myrtle in your fist has gone limp from the walk down. Your brother has been arguing with the purser about the wine casks for an hour. You press the stem into his palm anyway, the single leaf folded over its cluster of berries, and tell him it came from the garden wall at home, where the bees arrive first in spring.

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He laughs the way he did when you were small and handed him warm stones from the path. 'Myrtle for a grave or myrtle for a wedding,' he says. 'Which is it?' You do not know. Your mother used to say the plant grew best where people had been careful with it, and you have never worked out whether she meant the soil or the people.

The crew shouts. He tucks the sprig behind his ear, thinks better of it, and slides it into his tunic where the cloth will keep it dry. You watch the sail go up, a grey patch against a grey sky, and you count the berries you can still picture on the stem: five, then six, the way you counted them that morning.

By the time the ship clears the harbour mole you are walking home along the seawall, and you find you have picked another sprig without meaning to. It is still green. You will plant it by the wall tonight and wait, as your mother taught you, for it to decide whether it means to stay.

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