Woman seen from behind with hair in a bun, hands on her neck, showing a heart-shaped colour tattoo of floral and swirl patterns on the back of her neck.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Heart of floral patterns on the back of the neck

Neck · Colour · Photo

A woman is photographed from behind with her hair tied up, her hands resting on either side of her neck. A heart-shaped design sits at the nape, filled with circular floral motifs, swirls and small dots in teal, orange, brown and pink. The fine, even linework sits against a soft, lightly freckled background, with the subject's pink top visible at the bottom of the frame.

Neck Heart Flower Pattern Swirl Dot Hair bun

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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

Dilys had been on her knees in the nave for three hours when the tile came loose under her trowel, and the damp-blackened mortar gave way like wet bread. Beneath it, face down in the grit, lay a tile the colour of a duck egg, its glaze still bright where the rain had never reached. She turned it over. Someone had pressed a heart into the clay, and inside the heart a ring of rosettes had been stamped one after another, orange and brown, each dot a fingertip's width from the next.

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The survey team called it a Victorian replacement, laid over a medieval floor when the chapel roof came down in 1840. Her father had been the mason on that restoration and had sworn every tile in the north aisle was accounted for. He kept a ledger for it. Dilys fetched the ledger from the estate office on the Thursday and read it with a cup of stewed tea going cold at her elbow, until she found the line: one pattern tile, heart, returned to the kiln at Ashby Wharf, not fired. Nobody had ever written down why.

That evening she walked the tumbled curtain wall with the tile wrapped in her scarf. Below the keep the river had cut a bank away, and in the wet earth she found a second tile, then a third, all hearts, all teal, as though someone had been paving a path for a bride who never climbed the hill. The sun slid behind the gatehouse. She laid the three tiles in a row on the cold stone and, for the first time in weeks, did not reach for her notebook.