Fine line black tattoo of a bare tree with spreading branches on the inside of a wrist, next to a woven beaded bracelet.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small bare tree on a wrist

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A small black tattoo of a bare tree sits on the inside of a wrist, with thin branches fanning out from a short trunk at the upper edge. The linework is fine and even, and the ink is solid black with no shading or colour. The photo is taken close up on a soft fabric background with a woven bracelet with red and green beads on the same arm.

Fine line Botanical Other Tree Bare tree Branches Bracelet

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

They met under the oak on the green, as the village had always done, though the school it once belonged to had been pulled down before most of them were grown. Maud Pilling got there first with a tin of shortbread and her mother's recipe folded inside the lid. The tree had been bare since the dry August. Her grandfather said a tree that gives everything away in one summer will stand thin for a while, and that it would come back when it was ready.

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She found her name on the trunk, cut crooked at knee height, and beside it another, Tom Garside, with a small cross she had carved the year he let the Bell boys push her into the brook and said nothing. Nobody had told her he was coming. The list pinned to the church noticeboard had only said bring a chair.

He came up the lane at four with a bare twig in his fist, its end split and sticky. He held it out. "Broke this off the top branch. Thought you might want to see how it's built." The twig forked and forked again, each fork thinner than the last, like the lines a child draws when she has not yet learned how branches join. "Every bit of it reaches for something," he said. "Even the ends."

They ate the shortbread sitting on the cold roots and did not talk about the brook. When the light went, Maud pressed the twig into the soft soil by the cross, the way her grandfather had taught her to plant a cutting, and walked home without looking back.

In the morning there was a bud on the oak, green as a thumbprint, and beside it a fresh scar of pale bark where the cross had been. The village said it was the rain. Maud knew better, but she only ever told it to Tom, and he only ever nodded.