Chapter two - The First Story.

The address led her down a lane she’d never noticed before. She’d walked these streets hundreds of times, bought coffee on the corner, waited for buses nearby. Yet never looked beyond the row of old workshops.

There, tucked quietly behind them, sat a small white caravan. Its paint had weathered over time, but it was lovingly cared for. Two pots of lavender framed the step, a simple wooden bench beneath a small window. Nothing tried to impress. It simply waited.

She paused. For years she’d imagined this day. She’d imagined the tattoo. What she hadn’t imagined was the question that now settled quietly in her mind. Which story?

Not which design, not which colour. Which story was she willing to carry for the rest of her life? The thought unsettled her. Every memory suddenly wanted to be first. Every hurt argued it mattered most. Every success quietly whispered that perhaps it deserved to be remembered instead. How could anyone possibly choose?

Before she had a chance to knock, the door opened. A woman, perhaps in her 60s, smiled warmly. Hello, no ceremony, no mystery, just kindness. Inside, shelves filled with sketchbooks, pencils gathered in old jars, a few framed line drawings, a kettle humming softly in the corner. The artist gestured towards a chair. She sat. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Eventually, she smiled awkwardly.

So, what happens now? The artist settled comfortably opposite. That depends. Silence. It stretched longer than felt comfortable. So what do I do? The artist smiled. What would you like to do? The question caught her completely off guard. I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.

The artist nodded gently, I imagine that’s exactly why you’re here. Another pause. So… What story have you brought? She looked down. I honestly don’t know. You’ve been thinking about this for a long time, haven’t you? A small smile. Since I was little. So… What is it that you want? The frustration came quickly. I thought you would help me. I will, the artist said. A pause, but I can’t choose your story. She shifted in her chair. What do people normally ask for?

The artist smiled again. We’re not talking about people. We’re talking about you. The words landed softly, but there was nowhere to hide from them. Silence settled across the room. Not awkward, not uncomfortable… Simply space. For the first time, she noticed how much she had wanted someone else to decide for her. Someone older, someone wiser, someone who could take the risk of being wrong.

The artist stood, poured two mugs of tea, placed one gently in front of her. She waited another moment before speaking. I think, she said quietly, This might be the right time to tell you a story.