Red pencil sketch of a woman's face framed by flowing hair and a large rose, a neo-traditional tattoo design with no body placement shown.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Woman portrait with roses in red pencil

Neo-trad · Colour · Flash

A red pencil line drawing of a woman's head and shoulders, with a large rose tucked into her flowing hair and a second rose partly visible behind her cheek. The linework is fine and layered, with flowing strands of hair, soft shading on the face and collar, and a ruffled neckline at the base. The image is a single-colour sketch on pale paper, with the composition centred on the face.

Neo-trad Woman Portrait Rose Hair Leaves Sketch

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, the old man said, though nobody on the platform had asked. He had a habit of talking to the 6.40 as if it could hear him, and tonight it was late, so he had plenty of time to tell the three of us waiting about Ivy Marr and the sketchbook she left under the bench at Harrowgate Junction.

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She was a ticket clerk's girl, he said, and drew in red pencil because her father would not pay for black. Every evening she sat in the waiting room with the stove ticking and drew the same face over and over. Roses tucked behind the ear, hair blown back as if a train had just gone through, and a lace collar frilled at the throat like a bride's. Her father called it a waste of good paper. She called it the only thing on the line that went anywhere.

The turn came in the February of the big snow. The night mail stopped three miles short and the signalman's lamp went out, and Ivy walked the embankment with a shuttered lantern to find him. She came back at dawn with frost in her lashes and the sketchbook gone. Nobody ever found it, though the old man swears a red rose lay pressed on the frozen step outside the waiting room, bright as a drop of wine.

The old man stood, tapped the bench twice with his cane, and looked up the line. The 6.40 was just a light in the cutting. He said the book was still under that bench if we cared to look, and that the face in it was never sad, only listening for the wheels. Then the train came in and he was gone before the doors opened.