Black fine line tattoo of an open heart joined to a cursive script word on the inner forearm, in a fine line and lettering style.

Heart and cursive script tattoo on forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single black fine line heart is drawn as one continuous stroke that trails down into a cursive script word, which appears to read faith. The linework is even and thin, with no shading, and the ink is solid black against the skin. The tattoo sits diagonally across the inner forearm near the wrist, with a blue sleeve visible at the lower left edge of the frame.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Heart Script Faith

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ladder leans against the old Bramley in the second week of September, and you are the only one who has not learned to climb it without looking down. Your uncle Tomas says the trick is to count the rungs out loud. You think this is nonsense until you try it and find your breathing has slowed to match the numbers. Below, the windfalls have begun to split on the wet grass, and the wasps have found them before anyone else.

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Your grandmother kept the ledger in the packing shed, in a hand that looped so tightly it looked like wire. Every picking was recorded there, every crate and every bruised apple sent to the cider man in Hereford. At the top of each page she had written one word, not as a prayer but as a heading for the trees she trusted to come good again the following year. Tomas wants to sell the orchard to a developer with a glossy brochure. You have the ledger on your knee, and the pencil stub she always kept behind her ear.

In the back, dated the autumn before she died, there is a single drawing that is not a figure. It is a heart made from one unbroken stroke, the line running down the margin and turning, without lifting the pencil, into the word she had written at the top of every page. You sit in the shed for a long time with the door open and the light going amber on the floor.

The next morning you climb the ladder again and pick the last of the Bramleys, one from each branch, until your basket is full. At the very top, where the sun catches it, you leave one apple hanging for the frost to take, because she always did.