Colourful watercolour-style tattoo of a silhouetted woman with long flowing pink hair, on a person's upper back near the shoulder blade.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Watercolour figure with flowing pink hair on a shoulder

Traditional · Back · Colour · Photo

A pale silhouetted female figure with long pink hair that swirls outwards in ribbon-like strands is set against a splash of blue, purple, teal and yellow watercolour washes. Drips run downwards from the base of the splash, and a dark red flower sits at the left edge. The tattoo is shown on the upper back, with the body cropped so that no face is visible.

Traditional Back Woman Figure Hair Watercolour Splash Drip Flower Abstract

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The blue has been running in the cistern for three days, and you are the only one on the Halde Ring who can tell Mara what it used to be. You hold a sample vial up to the lamp over the hydroponics bay and watch the light come through it, deep and slightly violet at the edges. Ultramarine, you tell her. Not the refinery's synthetic. Ground from old quarry stone, the kind they stopped mining before either of you was born.

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The folio is in the sealed drawer beneath the lichen samples, wrapped in film that crackles when you lift it. Inside, a painter who signed only with a pressed flower has sketched a woman whose hair has come loose from her and unspooled into the room, pink and endless, turning like weather. Behind her the sky is a wash of blue and teal and a yellow that has bled through to the reverse of the paper. Someone long ago let the paint run. Thin lines of it drip from the bottom edge as though they meant to fall further.

Mara wants the drips gone. She says a restored page should look like a page, not a leak. You spend the night with a fine brush and a dish of distilled water, lifting pigment one bead at a time, and by the third hour you notice the paper under the drips is stained a different colour from everything else, as if rain once came through a window that appears on no chart. You stop. The line of the painter's hair is still pink under your lamp, and it has not moved in two hundred years.

In the morning you tell Mara the folio cannot be cleaned without losing what it is. She frowns at you, then at the page, and says nothing for long enough that the air handlers come up to speed. You slide the sheet back into its film and return it beneath the lichen. In the cistern the blue is still running, slowly, toward the drain, the way it was always going to.