Black and grey drawing of a sunflower in a fine line style, shown as a tattoo design on paper, with petals and a stippled centre.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sunflower drawing in pencil and ink

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A hand-drawn sunflower shown in side view, with a curled stem entering from the left and layered petals fanning out to the right. The linework is dark and fine, with shading built from hatching and a dense stippled dot pattern in the centre of the flower. The image is a black and grey drawing on pale paper, composed as a single flower filling most of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The hall smells of floor polish and warm squash, and the name badge on your lapel has already started to curl at one corner. Across the room Mr Okafor lifts his plastic cup at you as though the last twenty years were a long bell between lessons. You cross to him through a crowd of people you half recognise, and he says your name before you can say his, the way he always did when he wanted the class to sit down.

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"Do you remember the sunflower?" he asks. It was the one in the yoghurt pot on the windowsill of Room 14, grown from a seed you had been told to plant and then forgotten, until it was taller than the blinds and bowing its great face toward the glass. The whole class counted its seeds for a term. You were the one who stayed behind on Thursdays to water it, because you liked the way the head followed the light and then, when the light went, stayed turned toward the empty desks as if it were waiting for someone to come back.

Somebody laughs behind you and the noise rises and falls like a tide. Mr Okafor taps his temple. "Two hundred and eleven," he says. "I never checked the count after you left." You slide a hand into the pocket of your coat, where a small paper envelope has been since you packed for the train, and feel the dry grit of it there: the seeds you took home on the last afternoon and never planted anywhere at all.

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