Black fine line lettering reading home is wherever I'm with you runs diagonally along the inner forearm of a hand raised against a dim background.

Quote reading home is wherever I'm with you

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand and forearm show a single line of black lettering that reads home is wherever i'm with you, running diagonally from the wrist towards the elbow. The letters are thin, even and set in a simple sans serif style with uniform spacing. The photograph is warm and monochrome, with a bright lamp shade blurred at the top and dark shadows around the arm.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Quote Word Home

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow had sealed the Cross road by four o'clock, and you were still in the taproom when the lamp above the bar began to smoke. Mrs Dunnock had gone up to bed with her knitting, the coal boy had gone home across the yard before the drifts closed it, and the fire had sunk to a red pulse under the grate. Then the door banged open and a woman came in with snow in her collar and a rucksack that had seen better roads.

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She asked for a room and nothing else. You gave her the key to number four, the one whose window looks across the yard at the lamp, and she signed the book in pencil, pressing too hard. Her entry said only Carlisle, the name of a street she had not reached, and beside it a date that had already passed. You wondered who was waiting at the end of it. You did not ask. Guests at Hollin Cross learned early that the inn kept its own counsel.

Morning came grey and blinding. The plough got through by ten, and number four was empty, the bed made tight in a way nobody at Hollin Cross ever bothered with. On the slate by the door, where you chalk the weather and the room numbers, someone had written beneath SNOW CLEARING BY NOON: home is wherever i'm with you. Small, even letters, lowercase, as if each word had been measured before it was set down.

You thought about wiping it away. Instead you left it for the next storm, and the one after that, and by March the chalk had worn pale at the edges, but the line was still there, running the length of the slate like a road nobody would ever need to clear.