Black and grey fine line snowflake tattoo on the side of a neck, partly framed by light blonde hair.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small snowflake tattoo on the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A small, six-armed snowflake sits on the skin at the nape of the neck, with the hair falling across the top of the frame. The snowflake is drawn in thin black linework with simple branches and no shading. The soft black and white photograph is taken from behind, with a shallow focus that keeps the tattoo as the clear subject.

Fine line Neck Snowflake Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift at Harrow Point had been broken since the first frost, so Nell carried the coal up by hand, eleven flights with the bucket knocking against her shins. Nobody on the eleventh floor had a fire lit that winter except old Mr Pask, and he kept his door open a crack so she could hear him breathing before she reached the landing.

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His grandmother had told him the story, he said, and she had it from a woman who kept a mangle in the cellars of the old canal houses before the towers went up. When the first proper snow came, a single flake would drop past the window of someone who owed a debt that could not be paid in money. It would have six arms, and each arm was a day. Pay before the sixth day ran out, or the snow kept falling on that person's stairwell until the lift had been mended by their own hands. Mr Pask had found such a flake on his sill the morning before, black against the glass, and he had pressed it between the pages of an old almanac so it would keep.

Nell asked him what he owed. He would not say. She lit his fire instead, and he watched the coal catch with his hands folded on the blanket. On the second day she carried up bread, and on the third she carried up the wireless battery from her brother's flat. On the fourth he asked her to read him the weather, and she did, though the paper only said cold. On the sixth morning the snow stopped falling past the eleventh floor, the lift shuddered and started, and Mr Pask opened the almanac to show her the flake had gone to dust in the fold, leaving just the faint shape of six thin arms on the page.