Close-up of a fine black handwritten script tattoo reading twenty six two, running up the side of an ankle.

Twenty six two script on an ankle

Lettering · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a foot and ankle showing the words twenty six two in thin black handwritten script, running vertically along the side of the ankle. The linework is even and single-weight with no shading, and the ink is a dark blue-black. The composition is angled to show the heel and ankle against a dark background with a patterned sleeve and jeans at the edge of the frame.

Lettering Fine line Ankle Script Handwriting Text

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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

Nobody in Penhallow sorted the dead letters any more, but Edith Trewin still kept the drawer under the counter, the one with the brass pull worn smooth. Every Thursday the van came up from Truro with its sacks of undeliverable post, and every Thursday she read the envelopes the way other women read the paper, looking for news of someone she knew.

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Most had no address at all, just a name and a smudge. The one that came in February had only a scrawl across the front, in the same thin pencil a schoolboy uses for sums: twenty six two. No town, no street, no postmark she could read. She turned it over twice before she put it in the drawer, and then took it out again.

She told herself it was a sum, or a bus, or a room in some hospital. She wrote to the sorting office at Bodmin, then to Penzance, asking if anyone recognised the hand. Bodmin wrote back that it was not their fault. Penzance didn't write back at all. By April she had stopped pretending the letter was lost and started walking to the top of the lane each evening at twenty past six, the hour the bus used to stop there, to see who got off.

Nobody got off. On the first warm night in May she finally opened the envelope with the bread knife. Inside was a single sheet with no words, only a number written again and again down the page, each one a little smaller, until the last was hardly more than a dot of ink. Underneath, very small, someone had written Edith, and then, as if they had thought better of it, had crossed it out.