Black and grey realism tattoo on a forearm showing a woman's face with closed eyes and blunt fringe, with a large clock face and gears behind her.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic woman's face and clock on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A photorealistic portrait of a woman with a blunt fringe and closed eyes, shown in profile and framed by long strands of hair. Behind her is a large clock face with visible numerals and small gears, with fine wispy lines drifting across the design. The work is rendered in smooth black and grey shading with strong contrast, wrapping along the forearm of a person wearing a dark top.

Realism Forearm Woman Face Clock Gear Hair Portrait

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You have wound the station clock every night since Mr Pryce's fingers got too stiff for the ladder, and tonight the brass key slips twice before the spring catches. Below you the booking hall is empty except for the wireless in the porter's room, playing a dance band that is always a few years behind the times, like everything else in Haddon Bridge. Outside, the rain has smeared the platform lamps into long yellow streaks.

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The clock stopped at twenty to four on the twelfth of March, the afternoon the fog cancelled the Leeds connection and Ruth Ellery came pounding up the stairs with her good coat over her arm, asking for a single to London. You sold it to her. You remember the ticket was pink, and that she kept her fringe low over her eyes the whole time she stood at the window, as if the glass might show her something she had already decided not to see. She never came back for the train she was supposed to meet, and nobody has told her mother why.

Now you feel the gears take up the slack, and wedged between two wheels behind the minute hand you find a folded slip of paper, the sort the timetable office used for complaints. It is in Ruth's round, careful hand. Mum, I set it ten minutes fast so I would never be late for you. I was late for everything else.

You read it twice under the lamp, then climb down and carry it across the wet cobbles to Mrs Ellery's back door before the milk cart comes. She opens it in her dressing gown, reads the slip without a word, and folds it back along the same crease. You go back to the hall and set the minute hand to the true time. At a quarter past eleven, in the empty room, the second hand begins to move.