Close-up of three small black star tattoos on a tanned hip, above a white crochet bikini.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Three small stars on a hip

Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close-up photograph of a tanned torso wearing a white crochet bikini. Three small star tattoos sit on the hip, angled diagonally, in dark ink with simple outlined or lightly filled shapes. The frame is cropped below the bust and above the thighs, with the navel and bikini waistband visible, and the image is lit with warm natural light.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the lamp's warm enough for both of us. You want the three stars, do you, the ones that hang low over the gasworks where the canal bends? Everybody in this city knows them and nobody looks up anymore. Back when the trams still rattled down Quay Street to the docks, a seamstress named Hetty Vane lived above a pawnbroker's, and she had three daughters who could not sleep unless the window was open.

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Every night the girls leaned out and counted the lights on the water. The eldest, Ada, could name every barge by its lantern. The middle one, Lil, wanted to be a lamplighter and climbed the railings to prove it. The youngest, Dot, only ever wanted to be somewhere else, and she said so loudly enough that the whole street heard.

One November the fog came up off the river thick as wet wool, and a coal boat went missing with Lil's sweetheart aboard. Hetty sat up crocheting a white collar she never finished, stitch after stitch, because her hands needed something to do while the bells rang. When the fog finally lifted, the three girls were gone from the window, and in their place three small points of light sat above the gasworks, a little crooked, the way a hand sets down a dropped thing.

Some say they are only stars. I say a sailor on that canal can still find his way home by them, and that is the whole of the story, and you have finished your tea, so off you go.