Fine line black script reading lumos with a four-pointed star beside it, tattooed on a wrist.

Lumos script and star on a wrist

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a small black tattoo on the wrist, showing the handwritten word lumos in thin, slightly uneven script. A four-pointed star with a small dot at its centre sits to the right of the word. The ink is solid black on pale skin against a dark sleeve and a plain background.

Fine line Lettering Other Star Script Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lamp won't catch in the wet, and by the time the bell at Harrow Lane rings six you have struck the flint eleven times and your knuckles are raw. Old Mrs Pyle from the cottage by the stile has sent word that her grandson went into Coldhollow after the goats and has not come out. Your mother hands you the spare lantern without looking up from the bread. "Take the good wick," she says, "and don't say the word unless you mean it."

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The word is the one your grandfather taught you for the trees that lean too close, the one that makes a small hard light bloom at the end of a stick. You say it once you are past the last fence, and the lantern flares so suddenly that the path jumps out white ahead of you. Bracken glitters with frost. Beyond it the goats are bunched together, bleating, and beyond them the boy sits against an oak with his ankle folded the wrong way and his cap pulled down over his eyes.

The light is not enough to find the way back. The branches shuffle overhead and the path forks where it never forked before. Your grandfather used to say that a light is only a point you can walk toward, so you lift the lantern high, and through a gap in the canopy you see a single star hanging sharp and four-pointed over the ridge. You fix your eyes on it and walk. The boy grips your sleeve and counts his steps under his breath, and the goats follow you both like a tide.

At the stile Mrs Pyle is waiting with the kettle on and her shawl over her head. She takes the boy's weight without a word and sends you a look that says more than thanks would. When you turn back for the lane the sky has cleared, and the star is still there above the ridge, small and steady, exactly where you left it.