Black and grey tattoo of a hooded, cloaked figure reaching towards a triangle symbol with a vertical line, placed on the upper back.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hooded figure and triangle symbol on upper back

Back · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo shows a hooded, cloaked figure with a skull-like face and long, flowing, tattered drapery, its arm extended towards a triangle with a vertical line through it. The linework is soft and the shading is smoky, with dark areas in the cloak and lighter grey washes across the body. The tattoo sits on bare skin across the upper back, with a little body hair visible at the edge of the frame and a warm orange tone in the skin around the design.

Back Hooded figure Cloak Triangle Vertical line Skull

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

I had the ovens going by three and the first tins out by half four, which is when the street belongs to the milk float and the fox. That morning the fox had company. A figure stood at the back gate in a cloak that hung off it in strips, like wet sacking left out in a gale. The hood was pulled so far forward that I could see nothing inside it but a pale suggestion of bone when it turned toward the lamp.

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It did not knock. It lifted one long arm, and at the end of it I saw a shape scratched into the air: three lines meeting at their points, with a straight stroke running down through the middle. Ash from my grate lifted and bent toward it like iron filings. "Stale is fine," it said, in a voice like a drawer being slid open. "Yesterday's will do." I had a rule about strangers at the back gate, but my hands were already reaching for the bag of day-old cobs before my good sense caught up.

It paid in coins I had never seen, tarnished silver with worn edges, and asked how long I had kept this place. Eleven years, I said. It nodded slowly, as if counting those years on something it carried. Then it asked whether the bakery had ever had a name. I told it about my mother's sign, painted over in 1994. "Then it is still waiting for one," it said.

When the sun came up over the slate roofs, the gate was latched and the coins were warm in my apron. On the step, pressed into the flour I had dusted there, was the mark: three sides and a line through them, clean as a stamp. I have never swept it. The regulars step over it and think it is a child's drawing, and I let them.