Close view of a fine line black script tattoo reading "we found love" on the inner forearm of a person whose hand rests nearby.

"We found love" script on forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A thin black script reads "we found love" across the inner forearm, running diagonally from wrist towards elbow. The linework is fine and even, with no shading or fill, and the lettering is crisp against the skin. The warm, vintage-toned photo is cropped with black bars top and bottom, showing the arm, a hand wearing a silver ring, and part of a printed shirt behind.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Text Hand Ring

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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

The words on the landing mirror were the first thing I noticed when Mrs Fenwick's room was emptied, though I expect the girl who wrote them thought nobody would look up. She had dipped a hairpin in the ink from the hall desk, and the letters ran slantwise across the glass, thin and careful, as if she were practising a signature. We found love. Not we have found, nor we'll find. Found, the way you find a shilling in a coat pocket, by accident and with surprise.

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Mother kept the house on Harbour Row for thirty years and had a rule about lodgers' marks: wipe them before the next booking. The rule was easy when the marks were initials carved into the bedposts or a gull's feather pressed between the pages of the Bible. This one I could not bring myself to rub out. Each morning I cleaned the glass for the breakfast room and left the top corner alone, where the fine line of the script caught the light off the bay.

In September the rain came in sideways off the sea, and Mr Ellery in number four asked for a second blanket, and the postman brought a letter addressed to Miss Ada Lowe, who had left in August with a suitcase held shut by string. I kept it on the hall table for a week. Then I opened it, because I am my mother's daughter, and it was only a bill from a dressmaker in Canterbury. I laughed until I had to sit on the stairs.

I still wipe the glass every morning. I have stopped pretending the words are a mistake. When the sun comes through at the right angle, the letters throw their thin shadows across the stair carpet, and I stand very still with the cloth in my hand and read them again, the way you might read a shop sign in a town you had only ever dreamed of.