Traditional style colour tattoo of a lit log cabin under snowy mountains and a crescent moon, with pine cones and branches below, on a limb.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Log cabin, crescent moon and pine cones

Traditional · Other · Colour · Photo

A log cabin with a shingled roof and glowing windows sits in front of snow-capped mountains, with a yellow crescent moon above. Pine cones and pine branches frame the lower part of the design, with small snow marks on the ground. Bold black outlines define the forms, with flat areas of brown, green, yellow and grey.

Traditional Other Cabin Mountain Snow Crescent moon Moon Pine cone

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The windows are lit when you come over the last ridge, which means either Ada has fed the stove and gone to sleep, or the old converter has finally coughed its way back to life. You stand in the snow with the sledge rope cutting into your palm and count the lamps. Two. Good. Above the peaks the moon hangs thin as a paring knife, the same sickly yellow it has been since the Drift swallowed the sky's blue, and you think the cabin looks like a house a child would draw if the child had only ever heard about houses.

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The pine cones in the sledge are the reason you came. Forty years ago the Hartwell plantation on the south slope was the last stand of conifers on the continent, and the seed cellar beneath this cabin holds the only viable cones the blight missed. Ada's grandfather wrote the labels in pencil, and the pencil has faded to ghosts. You have carried a dozen of them up the mountain for three weeks, wrapped in wool and tucked against your ribs so the cold could not get at them.

Inside, the stove ticks. Ada is not asleep. She sits at the table with the ledger open, and when she looks up her face is the colour of the lamp. 'The converter's gone for good,' she says. 'We're on candles from tonight.' You set the cones down between you, dark scales catching the light, and she reaches out and touches one the way people touch a headstone.

Then you tell her about the frost on the south slope, which has not melted in a season, and the green shoots you found pushing through it anyway. You watch her decide to believe you. Outside, the moon keeps its thin watch over the roof, and somewhere under the snow the trees are waiting for someone to plant them.