Black fine line script tattoo reading Serendipity on the side of the torso.

Serendipity script tattoo on the side

Lettering · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of the word Serendipity written in flowing black cursive script across smooth skin. The strokes vary in weight, with a long trailing line extending from the final letters and a looping capital S. The ink is solid black on pale skin, and the image is framed tightly on the tattoo with a grey fabric edge at the top and left.

Lettering Fine line Ribs Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lambing shed smelled of wet straw and paraffin the morning you found the letter, wedged under the feed bin where the mice had nibbled one corner to lace. Your father had been dead a fortnight. Nobody had thought to shift that bin, and you hadn't either, until the ewe in pen four needed her hay pushed closer and you had to drag the thing out into the yard with your boots slipping on the frost.

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The hand was looping and slanted, the kind they taught in village schools before biros reached Lower Hallow. It was addressed to Mr Harold Pryce, dated March 1958, and it began with an apology for a cart that had lost an axle outside the market. Near the bottom the writer said the man she had come to meet never turned up, but a stranger had stopped to fix her wheel and talk about rain, and that he was the best thing to come of her wasted morning. Beneath her name she had underlined one word twice: Serendipity.

You walked it down to the post office on Sunday, past the chapel and the frozen pond, and the postmistress took one look and said Harold Pryce had been her uncle. He had courted nobody for sixty years, she told you, and the bungalow with the blue gate belonged to his sister Nell, who was ninety-one and still read the paper with a magnifying glass.

Nell opened the door in her cardigan and held the letter up to the window light for a long while. Then she laughed, a sound like a kettle starting, and said that was her mother's hand, and that the stranger had been Harold himself, who never went home that day and never stopped being glad of it. You left the letter on her mantelpiece, propped against the clock. On the drive back the sky over the fields had broken open and the frost was going to water, and the word stayed with you the whole way, bright as a new nib.