Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Profile face and rose on a wrist

Fine line · Other · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows a black linework outline of a face in profile, with two hands framing it, and a small red rose sits near the lower hand. The lines are thin and mostly unshaded, with a slightly sketchy, varied stroke weight. Black ink dominates, with the rose as the only colour, and the tattoo is centred on the inner wrist against a plain tiled floor.

Fine line Other Profile Face Hand Rose Outline

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The frost had got into the rose beds before Lauds, and I was still on my knees with a trowel when Brother Edwin came across the yard with his hands cupped before him, as if he carried a sparrow. He didn't say anything. He just opened them, and there in the hollow of his palm lay the last bloom of the old damask, dark red, its petals browning at the edges and open far too late in the year.

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We had both known that bush since we were novices. It had grown against the south wall of the infirmary for longer than anyone could remember, and nobody had pruned it since Brother Gilbert died, so it climbed where it liked, over the guttering and in through the window of the empty cell. Edwin said he'd found the bloom at dawn, wedged in the ivy, as though it had been waiting for someone to notice it.

Above the chapter house door there is a stone face, a woman in profile with her chin lifted, worn so smooth by three centuries of weather that she looks more like a shadow than a person. Someone once carved a pair of hands either side of her, open, as if offering her something. For as long as I have been here, the hands have been the only part of her anyone bothers to look at.

We climbed the ladder together. I wedged my boots against the rung while Edwin held the rose up to the stone and set its stem into the crack beneath her chin, where the mortar had crumbled away. The bloom sat there, red against the grey, and the frost on the carved fingers began to shine. When we came down, neither of us spoke of it, but by Terce the whole yard smelled of it, which is the nearest thing to a sermon this house has managed in years.