Close-up of a fine line black script tattoo reading Not all those who wander are lost, placed on the upper thigh of a person in a denim shirt.

Script quote tattoo on the upper thigh

Fine line · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A close-up photograph of a person's upper thigh, partly covered by a denim shirt, with the phrase Not all those who wander are lost written in thin black cursive script across the skin. The linework is fine and even, with no shading, and the image is shot in warm, soft-focus tones with a pale background. The composition centres the lettering on the thigh, with the hands and shirt framing the edges.

Fine line Lettering Thigh Quote Text Script Phrase

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The delivery van rattles up Mill Street while the sky is still the colour of wet slate, and you come through the back door with rain in your hair. Ruth has already slid the trays from the proving cupboard. She doesn't look up. "Late," she says. "Or early. Depends which of us you ask."

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You have been here eleven weeks, which is longer than you have stayed anywhere since the coach dropped you at the bus station with a rucksack and no plan. Your mother used to say you would wander off like a stray cat and come back with stories. Ruth never asks for any of them. She asks only whether the dough is ready, and you learn to press a floured finger into it and count how long the dent takes to spring back.

Before dawn the bakery belongs to the two of you and the hum of the ovens. Ruth keeps a biscuit tin on the shelf above the scales, its lid soft with age, and inside it a jar of starter she claims is older than the shop. Last week she found a crust of it dried on the cold room floor, a thin trail leading out past the sacks, and she laughed until she had to sit on an upturned crate. "It was always going to find the door," she said.

By six the first batch is cooling on the racks. You take the razor and slash the top of a loaf, and the seam opens crooked, nothing like the neat cuts Ruth makes. You wait for her to correct it. She turns it over in her floured hands and sets it down by the window, where the light is coming grey over the rooftops. "Leave that one out," she says. "We'll see who buys it.