Pink script lettering reading Angel on the inner forearm, with a metal watch on the wrist above it.

Pink script word on inner forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A photograph of a script tattoo on the inner forearm, with the word Angel written in looping pink lettering and a small flourish and smaller script above it. The linework is solid and even, and the ink is a single bright coral pink with no visible shading. The wrist and watch sit at the top of the frame, with a blurred indoor background and a grey knit sleeve below.

Lettering Forearm Angel

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The pass closed at four on Tuesday, and by seven the drift had buried the lower step of the Hollin Inn so deep I had to shovel a path from the kitchen door just to fetch coal. I was on my knees in the scullery when the bell over the front door rang, which it never does in a blizzard, because nobody with sense is on the road.

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The woman in the lobby had a canvas bag clutched to her chest and snow melting off the hem of her coat onto my good floorboards. "I know you're shut," she said. "I saw the lamp." She didn't look at the room. She looked at the gate post through the window, where the word ANGEL still showed in coral paint under the frost, the capital A tilted and the long swooping flourish curling above it like a question. My father lettered every sign in this valley, and he put that loop on everything he signed. He painted the gate the spring before he left, and nobody had touched it since.

I didn't ask her how she knew the gate. I put her by the fire, found dry socks, and boiled the kettle twice. She told me he had taught her the A on a slate when she was six, holding her small hand in his big one, and that he had died in Carlisle in October and asked for the sign to be finished. The word on the gate was only half done, the flourish missing its last stroke.

In the morning the road was still white and the sky had cleared to a hard blue. I climbed the ladder with the tin of coral he had kept in the barn, and she held the foot of it steady without a word. I took my time over the loop. When I came down the sun had risen over the fells and caught the paint, bright enough to make us both squint, and the last stroke was there at last.