Fine line black tattoo of two small footprints above the script words you are my sunshine, on the top of a woman's foot.

Footprints and script lettering on a foot

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

The photo shows a bare foot with painted pink toenails, viewed from the side, with a tattoo on the top of the foot near the ankle. Two small footprints sit above handwritten script reading you are my sunshine, which runs down towards the ankle. The linework is thin and even in black ink, with no colour, and the photo is a phone screenshot of a web page with the browser interface visible around it.

Fine line Lettering Other Footprint Script Lettering Foot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Every morning in February, before the rooks had settled, Tobias Greaves found small prints in the frost on the path between the potting shed and the sundial. They were never big enough for a grown man's boot, nor a fox's, and they always came in pairs with the toes pointing towards the house, as though whoever made them had walked backwards from the orchard.

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His granddaughter Wren, who was four and had firm opinions, said the prints belonged to the sun's own child. She said the sun slept at the bottom of the well and had to be coaxed up each dawn, and someone had to walk the path first and sing so it knew the way. When Tobias asked what she sang, she hummed the tune his mother used to sing, then the words, slowly, the way you would hand over something breakable: you are my sunshine.

He did not believe a word of it, so one night he sat in the shed with his lamp turned low and waited. The rooks stirred. The frost came down silver on the lawn. Just before the grey light he saw Wren cross the grass in her bare feet, quiet as moths, her voice thin with cold as she sang under her breath. She stopped at the sundial, pressed both feet into the rime, and turned to face the east.

The first light touched the top of the wall. Tobias stood up, forgetting his lamp, and found that his own voice had started on the second line without him. By the time the sun cleared the orchard the prints were melting into the gravel, and Wren was asleep on the bench under his coat, and the path ran gold all the way to the gate.