Fine line black script quote tattooed along the side of a ribcage, reading life is not measured by the number of breaths we take.

Quote tattoo along the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A fine line script quote runs diagonally across the side of a torso, following the curve of the ribs. The text reads "life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away", set in staggered lines of varying length. The linework is single-weight black ink with no shading, and the blurred background of folded white towels and a bathroom setting keeps the focus on the lettering.

Fine line Lettering Ribs Quote Script Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Harriet had been painting the window of Brannigan & Sons since ten, and by half past midnight the letters were running ahead of her. She laid the gold leaf with a squirrel-hair brush, breathing out slowly so the size wouldn't skin over, and counted the way her father had taught her: one for each stroke of the S. Sixty-three letters in all. The customer had wanted the line on the glass facing the bus shelter, so the commuters at dawn would read it before the hearses pulled out.

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Outside, the street was empty except for a fox working through the bins and a taxi with its light on, going nowhere. She thought about the old man who had ordered it, Mr Ferris, who had come in with his hat in both hands and said he didn't want anything grand, only the words his wife had said near the end, something about the moments. He hadn't remembered the rest. Harriet had found it in a library book of Victorian verse, sent him a proof in a brown envelope, and when he didn't reply she took that as a yes.

Near one o'clock she reached the word away and her hand stopped. The gilt caught the streetlamp, and for a second the whole line glowed like something spoken aloud. She breathed out, held the brush still, then finished the last stroke in one clean pull, the way you sign your name on something you cannot take back.

When she stood up her knees cracked. She wiped the glass, pressed her palm flat over the new letters, and felt nothing but cool pane. Dawn was coming up grey over the bus station. Someone would read it with their coffee, and she would never know which moment they meant.