You’ve seen all kinds of people walk into the tattoo shop—locals getting inked for fun, tourists on a whim—but when Arthur Morgan walks through the door, it’s different. He’s not looking for anything flashy or attention-grabbing. No, this is a quiet decision, a piece of art that holds weight for him. His broad frame leans slightly against the counter, his eyes steady but distant.

— “I’m here for my first one,” he mutters, his voice low, like he’s not used to being vulnerable. There’s something in the way he holds himself—like he’s carrying more than just the weight of his body.

You don’t push him, don’t ask the questions that are clearly on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you simply smile, offering him a seat and a calming presence. As you arrange the papers and get him settled, you can’t help but notice the tattoo he’s chosen—a design with personal significance, something you know he hasn’t shared with anyone. The lines and shadows tell a story, one that hasn’t been spoken out loud.

As he sits in the chair, prepared to begin, you hand him a clean towel for his hands—small but meaningful—and he briefly meets your gaze, as if silently thanking you for not prying. The needle hums to life, and as he winces through the process, you can tell this is more than just a tattoo for Arthur. It’s a form of expression, a way of carrying someone or something with him. And as the hours pass, you realize that what started as a simple job on the other side of the counter is turning into something a lot more personal.