Three forearms side by side, each with three small black triangles stacked on the inner forearm, some outlined and some filled, with a tiny script tattoo on the middle wrist.

Three stacked triangles on three forearms

Geometric · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Three arms are shown side by side, each with a stack of three small triangles on the inner forearm, varying between solid black and outlined shapes. The middle wrist also carries a small piece of cursive script, too small to read clearly. The linework is thin and crisp, the ink is entirely black, and the arms fill the frame against a dark background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Tam, the snow shut the pass on Tuesday and it has not opened since, so I am writing this on the back of the inn's wine bill because the paper ran out on Thursday. Mrs Pargeter has the room by the stove, and the three of us who are left have taken to marking the shutters at dusk. Three triangles stacked on the sill, one each, the way you and I used to chalk ships on the scullery door when we were small and Dad was still letting us stay up for the lamp-lighting. Solid means the one you are waiting for has come in off the road. Hollow means still out there.

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For two nights Ada's stayed hollow. She went up to the col after the mule string, and the carter swore he saw her turn back at the cairn, but a cairn is a cairn and the wind takes a man's word like it takes a hat. Mrs Pargeter kept saying the mules had more sense than any of us. Then on Thursday the carter came down with a sack of flour across his shoulders and a face like wet paper, and Mrs Pargeter's triangle went solid before he had got the door shut. I sat with my own hollow one and watched the candle drip onto the tin of pear drops until the wick guttered.

This morning the light came in grey and flat, and the middle shape on the sill was still empty. I took the lamp black from the kitchen, wet my smallest brush on my tongue the way Dad showed us, and filled it in myself. It looked wrong at first, like a stain, and then it looked like a promise I had decided to keep. Ada is not home yet. But the stove is lit, and there is soup, and I have stopped counting the days and started counting the logs. Come back when the road lets you, and bring the good pen.

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