Black and white photo of a fine line tattoo on the inner wrist showing a stroke over two loops, the characters 9¾ and a triangle with a circle and vertical line.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fine line symbols on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a small tattoo on the inside of a wrist, set against a patterned fabric. The tattoo stacks a diagonal stroke over two small loops, the characters 9¾, and a triangle enclosing a circle with a vertical line. The linework is thin and even, in solid black ink with no shading, and the symbols are centred on the wrist.

Fine line Forearm Deathly hallows Triangle Circle Loop Line

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Every October the ticket hall at Caddon Halt filled with people asking where the platform between the platforms went, and every October Nell Tarrant told them it went nowhere they could afford. She had the job because her mother had it, and her mother had it because a surveyor named Ansel Gray had left a tin trunk in the waiting room in 1911 and never come back for it. The trunk was still under the bench, its brass corners gone green, and inside it lay three things wrapped in oilcloth: a length of rowan as straight as a ruler, a grey stone with a hole worn clean through its middle, and a cloak of cloth so fine it folded to the size of a letter.

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Her brother Tom wanted the stone valued. He had a man in Carlisle who bought old things and asked no questions, and Tom had already spent the money in his head twice over. Nell said nothing for a week. She sat with the rowan across her knees in the signal box, turning it, listening to the rails tick as the cold got into them. The stone she kept in her coat pocket, where it knocked against her hip whenever she climbed the stairs. She told herself she was only keeping them safe until the trunk could be sent back to Gray's people, though she had never found any people, and the only Gray in the parish register had died in a flood.

On the last Sunday of October she carried the trunk out to the far end of the platform, where the enamel board read 9¾ because the painter had run out of room. She unwrapped the cloak and laid it over the rail, and the wind took it, lifting it like breath on a window. She did not chase it. The stone she set on the sill of the empty hut, hole facing the sky, and the rowan she snapped in two over her knee and dropped into the drain.

At quarter to six the first train came in grey under the lamps. Nobody on it looked up at the sign, and Nell found she was glad of that.