Small dark tattoo on the side of the ribs of a woman wearing a grey sports bra and grey shorts, with her hands on her hips.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small tattoo on the ribs in a grey sports bra

Ribs · Mixed · Photo

A woman stands outdoors on a paved road, wearing a grey sports bra and matching drawstring shorts, with her hands on her hips and her face cropped out of the frame. A small dark tattoo sits on the side of her ribcage below the bra, too small and partly obscured to make out its design or linework clearly. The image is in full colour, with warm sunlight, a blurred garden and a red-tiled building behind her.

Ribs Woman Tattoo Ribcage

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dorothy Hale had lived at the end of Marrow Close for thirty-one years and had never once locked her side gate, which was why the boy from number nine kept leaving his football in her hydrangeas. On the Saturday the council sent men to repave the road, she stood at the kerb with a cup of tea going cold and watched them lift the old tarmac in grey slabs.

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Under the third slab, where the kerb had sunk, a brass key lay in the grit. It was small, no longer than a thumbnail, with a bow shaped like a leaf. Dorothy knew it at once. In 1978 her husband Ray had sworn he had lost the key to the tin box in the loft, the one that held his father's medals and the deeds to a field nobody could find on a map. He had torn the house apart for a week, then given up and bought a new padlock from the hardware shop on the high street.

She carried the key indoors and sat with it on the kitchen table beside the teapot. The loft ladder still hung on its hook. It took her twenty minutes to climb it with a torch in her teeth, and when the tin box turned in her hands, the lock opened with the same soft click it had made the day Ray first showed her how to hide things. Inside were the medals, a folded deed, and a note in his square capitals saying that whoever found it could have the field, but the gate was always to be left open.

Dorothy came back down the ladder, put the kettle on, and wrote to the boy at number nine to say the football could stay in the hydrangeas for now.