Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Small fine line tattoos on upper arms
Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo
A cropped photograph of a woman in a grey, button-front dress printed with thin reddish lines. Small black tattoos are visible on her upper arms, including a cup-like motif on the left arm and a slender figure on the right. The black ink is fine and the composition is centred on the torso against a plain light background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
You find the cup on the potting bench before you find your uncle, which is how the morning goes wrong. Its rim has a skin of frost and the tea inside has gone dark and still, like a pond in November. Beside it lies the wire figure your grandfather bent for the sweet peas, the one with no face, leaning on its single leg as if it had been waiting to be told it could go home.
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Nobody in Hollin Lane has grown sweet peas since the old glasshouse cracked. You walk the path between the beds, past the red thread you strung last summer to guide the runners, and count the canes the way he taught you: three, then a gap, then three. The soil under the rhubarb is dark and soft. Something has been digging there, and not a fox, because the holes are tidy and filled back in with care.
You kneel and brush the earth aside with the flat of your hand. Under it is a tin cup with a dented lid, the same faded blue as the enamel at the back of the shed. Inside is a folded note in his square capitals: THE FIGURE GOES WHERE THE CUP IS POURED. Your breath clouds. You understand he meant the wire thing, not a person, and that he has been leaving you instructions for a year in the places only you would think to look.
You lift the figure, set it upright in the tin cup, and the frost on its shoulders runs in a thin line down its back. The sun clears the shed roof. You pour the stale tea onto the rhubarb, and for once the rhubarb does not mind.
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