Small black fine line snowflake tattoo on the neck just behind the ear, shown in a black and white close-up photo.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Snowflake tattoo near the ear

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A small, solid black snowflake with six branches and symmetrical arms sits on the skin behind the ear. The lines are fine and the design is simple, with little shading, and the image is greyscale. The ear fills the top right of the frame and the soft background of skin and hair fills the rest.

Fine line Geometric Neck Snowflake

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Walter kept the frost book in the potting shed, a ledger with a cracked green cover, and every morning before the kale was touched he wrote down what the glass had done overnight. Nine degrees of frost, a hard white crust on the cold frames, the rhubarb crowns gone grey at the edges. I thought the book was for the garden. It was for him, I think, a way of holding on to days he could not otherwise account for.

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The first flakes came on a Tuesday in late November, so thin I doubted them until they settled on my coat sleeve. Walter pulled off his glove and held out his palm like a man checking for rain. "Look close," he said. "They never repeat. Six arms every time, and no two alike, not in all the winters since the Romans." He said it the way other men talk about football, and I laughed at him, and then I looked, and the crystal under the shed lamp had a fern's patience in it, each branch splitting into smaller branches that seemed to know exactly where they were going.

The thaw came on the Friday. We spent the afternoon lifting the last leeks, and when I went to fetch the trowel from the shed I found the ledger open on the bench. Beside the date, in his careful capitals, he had written only one line: SIX ARMS, ALL GOING SOMEWHERE. Underneath, a drop of water had fallen and blurred the ink into a faint star.

I did not tell him I had found it. I closed the book, put the trowel in my pocket, and walked out past the bean poles into the mud, where the light was already going thin and gold. Somewhere under the hedge a robin was singing as if the frost had never happened.