Two arms crossed together, each with the word 'always' in thin black cursive lettering on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Matching 'always' script tattoos on two forearms

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two arms are crossed over one another against a plain light background, each bearing the word 'always' in a thin, flowing cursive script. The linework is fine and even, rendered in solid black ink with no shading or colour. The tattoos are placed close to the wrists, with the word angled diagonally so the two match as a pair.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Always Script Word Cursive Matching

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nessa had stamped passports at Corran Gate for nineteen years, and in all that time nobody had asked her to read anything aloud. So when the old man slid a postcard under the glass on Tuesday, she assumed it was a visa question. It was not. It was a card from his late wife, written in a looping hand on the back of a seaside photograph, and he wanted to know whether the last word said what he thought it said.

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Nessa tilted the card toward the lamp. The word was 'always', written small and fast, the tail of the final s trailing off the edge of the paper as if it had been in a hurry to leave. She read it out in the flat voice she used for the duty officers. The old man nodded, tucked the card back into his coat, and asked for his stamp.

That should have been the end of it. But the next morning a woman in a green anorak came through the lane with a photograph of a different card, the same looping hand, and asked Nessa the same question. Then a lorry driver came, and a student with a rucksack, each with a scrap of paper carrying that one word in a slightly different pen. Nessa began to suspect it had been travelling the crossing for years, passed from one traveller to the next like a coin nobody could spend.

By the end of the month she had a shoebox of them. On the last Friday she took the oldest card, the old man's, and wrote the word in the back of the logbook beneath her own signature, where the date stamp would never quite reach. Then she closed the box, wished the night shift well, and walked home across the bridge in the rain.