Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Three matching flower wrist tattoos
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
Three wrists are pressed together, each with a single botanical tattoo. The left shows a delicate sprig with small blossoms, the centre a daisy-like flower on a thin stem, and the right a larger five-petalled bloom with a stem. The linework is fine and light, with no shading, and the monochrome photograph shows the ink in black and grey tones against the skin.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The gate at Harrowfell has been padlocked since the autumn fair, but the wall garden still has a door that sticks, and you know which shoulder to lean on. Mara is already kneeling by the broken arch where the great hall used to be, a knife between her teeth, laying out stones like a card table. "Not the foxglove," she says round the blade. "Foxglove is a liar. Take the daisy the Ashby boys trampled, and the sprig off the thyme that climbs the east wall."
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You cut each stem on the slant, the way your grandmother taught you, then wrap the bundle in wet newspaper from the gatehouse bin and bind it with a bootlace. The third cutting is the wild rose that has grown out of the cellar drain for forty years, pale and unbothered by anyone's plans. Its petals come away in your fingers and you apologise to it, out loud, which makes Mara laugh so hard she has to sit down on the flagstones.
At fifteen the three of you swore to plant one thing each somewhere nobody owned, and then the council sold the castle to a man who wanted it for weddings. Nobody owns the wall garden now, so you press your wrists together over the bundle, cold and sticky, and count to three before anyone is allowed to let go. The rain starts while you are still counting.
By March the cuttings are in jam jars on the windowsill above the bakery, roots like grey thread, and the sprig has put out two green leaves. Mara sends a photo. Under it she has written only: told you. You do not reply straight away. You go down to the yard and look towards the hill, where the castle is still standing, and the crows are still arguing about it.
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