Black silhouette tattoo of an adult holding a child's hand, with a purple heart balloon and blue wings, on a limb.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Parent and child silhouette with heart balloon

Other · Mixed · Photo

The central subject is a solid black silhouette of an adult walking while holding the hand of a smaller child, who holds a purple heart-shaped balloon on a string. Blue and teal wings sit to the right and a partial yellow and orange shape appears at the top left edge. The figures are filled in with solid black ink, while the balloon and wings are coloured, and the composition is set against a close view of the skin.

Other Silhouette Child Balloon Heart Wing Holding hands

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last heart-shaped balloon at Kessel Fair was the colour of plums, and Ida Morrow would not let go of its string. She tugged her father's sleeve until he bent down to her height and told him the balloon wanted to go up to the wind-towers, where the gulls kept their winter coats. Tomas Morrow paid the seller two coppers he could not spare, and they walked home along the river path with the balloon bobbing above them like a question nobody had asked yet.

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Halfway across the iron footbridge the wind came off the estuary, cold and sudden, and the string slipped through Ida's mittens. She did not cry. She stood very still and watched it climb, and her father did not reach for it. He only took her hand and held it tighter, the way he held the rope on the ferry when the tide ran hard. "Let it see the towers," he said. "It will come back down when it has finished looking."

That evening the kite-maker on Tanner Lane, who owed Tomas a favour for a mended kettle, let them choose from his wings of blue and teal silk stretched over willow. Ida picked the pair that shone like the estuary in August. Tomas held the frame steady while she tested the weight of it on her shoulders, and she decided it would do for a girl who had somewhere to be before the tide turned.

Next morning the balloon was back, snagged on the copper vane of the wind-tower with its string hanging down like a bell rope. Ida climbed no further than the bottom step and called it down with a whistle. Her father stood at the foot of the ladder with his hand open and low, where she could find it, and he said nothing about the height at all.