Small black and grey rose tattoo with shaded petals and leaves on a finger near the hand, in a botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small rose on a finger

Botanical · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A small rose sits across the side of a finger near the knuckle, with its bloom drawn in outlined petals and soft grey shading. Leaves extend to the left and right of the flower in lighter grey tones. The close-up photo shows the hand against a pale, plain background.

Botanical Hand Rose Leaves Flower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lamps in Hold Nine have been dimmed to amber since the third year out, so you bend close to the last rose bush the way your grandmother bent over her beans. Its leaves have gone the colour of dishwater and its stems have grown thin as wire, but the bud at the top is still closed tight, faintly grey at the edges like a thumbprint on glass. The council voted on Tuesday to convert the bay to cargo mass. Nobody argued for the roses. Nobody argued against them either.

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You take the cutting at night, when the corridor sensors are slow to wake. You wrap the stem in a damp strip of cloth and slide it into the inside pocket of your overalls, where it pulls against your ribs with every step. Past Hatch Seven, past the sealed galley and the chapel that now stores spare filters, you count doors the way you once counted stars through the observation port, and you do not look back at the bay's humming glass.

In your bunk you pot the cutting in a tin of wet soil, a gift from the old botanist who taught you to splice rootstock with a warmed scalpel. You tell no one. The ship's clock ticks toward arrival, and each day the bud swells a little more, until one morning there is a single rose on the windowsill, its petals ash-grey at the rims and dark at the heart, drawn in as neatly as a line of ink.

When the lander finally opens its ramp onto a sky the colour of rust, you kneel in the red dust and press the tin's soil into a hollow you have dug with your hands. You water it from your last bottle. The wind takes the first petal and carries it off across the plain, and you watch it go until it is only a speck of grey against the dawn.