(Transted from Japanese)
Weiss was on his way back to his homend—Germany.
As the train approached Brühl station, he slowly closed his eyes.
"Ernst. —I will fill that bnk."
With a gentle ctter, the wheels came to a stop.Weiss stood, stepped off the train, and walked through the old station building into town.Low buildings, moss-covered stone pavements, and a well-kept park greeted him.In the distance, the faint chime of a church bell echoed.
Not long after, in the middle of a wide square,he spotted an elderly man sketching alone on a bench.
"Hello. Do you often draw here?"
"Hmm? Ah yes, whenever the weather is nice. It's my daily routine."
"I see."
"Are you from around here, young man?"
"No, I'm originally from H?xter in Westphalia. But I've always admired Max Ernst, and I wanted to visit Brühl at least once."
"Haha, well then, you've come to the right pce. They say Max Ernst used to sit on this very bench and sketch."
"Really? He did?"
"That's why I started drawing here myself."
A quiet jolt ran through Weiss's spine.
—This isn't coincidence. I was meant to come here.
He sat beside the old man.
—So Ernst once sat here and drew.
"Sir, what time do you usually start drawing?"
"What time? Hmm... around eleven, I suppose. I pack up before sundown."
"Would it be alright if I come early and sketch before you arrive?"
"Heh, no need to ask permission. This bench isn't mine."
"Of course, but I didn't want to be in your way."
The old man gnced at him.
"Do you pn to make a living with your art?"
"Uh..."
Weiss hesitated.
"If so, don't worry about me. Draw here all you like. I can always find another spot."
The man smiled warmly and returned to his sketching.
"Thank you."
Weiss stared at the bench. Ernst had once sat here, drawing.
—Then I'll do the same.
As the thought took hold, a gentle warmth rose in his chest.He remained seated for a while, then slowly stood up.
He turned down a brick-paved path and wandered along a quiet river.The breeze, the scent, the light—he tried to absorb everything into his body, imprinting the town on his senses.
Eventually, near the house where Ernst had once lived as a child,Weiss found a small, aging apartment.A relic left behind by time.He signed the lease without hesitation and moved in.
A cramped, chilly room.But the view from the window stretched across the same town Ernst had once seen.
＊
A few days ter—
Weiss visited the town hall and began researching Ernst's school records and local registries.
Real name — Maximilian Ernst.
Through this, he managed to track down the name and address of a woman who had been Ernst's childhood friend.
He rang the bell of a small house, bowing politely to the elderly woman who appeared at the door with a cane.
"Good afternoon. I'm sorry to bother you. Are you Ilse, who once knew Maximilian Ernst?"
"Eh? ...Yes, but... who are you?"
She squinted, clearly wary, and examined Weiss.
"I'm sorry. I'm not anyone suspicious. I'm a painter. I've come to stay in Brühl to study Max Ernst—not just his paintings, but the life he lived, what he saw and felt. My search led me to your name. If you don't mind, may I ask you about those days?"
"Max? My goodness... it's been so long. Well, alright. Come in."
Weiss bowed deeply and followed her inside.
In a room warmed by a firepce, Ilse sank into an old sofa and began to speak, eyes fixed on distant memories.
"Max was a quiet, awkward child. But whenever he painted, it was different. Watercolors, charcoal, anything—he absorbed it instantly. Around his te teens, we stopped seeing each other. He said he was going to Paris. I stayed in Brühl, married, lived a normal life..."
Her gaze drifted far.
"...But I never forgot him. He wrote sometimes. Just ordinary letters, but his words always felt so free, so full of joy."
She retrieved a yellowed envelope from an old drawer.
"This is one of the letters Max sent me when he was young."
Inside was a single sheet, scrawled in bluish-gray ink.Bold, warm, bursting with youth.
Weiss gently touched it.
The paper's grain. The faded ink. The energy in the strokes—
It was Max Ernst, alive.
Something within Weiss ignited quietly.
This is it. —This too, I must paint.
A silence passed.Weiss carefully returned the letter to its envelope and offered it back with both hands.
"Thank you for sharing something so precious."
Ilse smiled and accepted it.
"To think that a young man like you still remembers him... Max would have been gd."
Weiss bowed deeply. She walked him to the door, and he stepped out.
The door closed softly behind him.The evening air was crisp, a breeze brushing his cheek.A trace of sunset lingered in the sky.
＊
Back at his apartment, Weiss created a makeshift studio.He stretched the old canvas, dipped the brush, and began painting—not copying Ernst, but breathing with him.
He painted not in imitation, but in Ernst's rhythm,with his emotions, his air.
He tried countless compositions, paused often, but felt no hesitation.Time slipped away. By dawn, it was done.
A forest unfurled, winding between trees.Twisted trunks, fruit growing upside down, animals standing atop floating stones.
It carried the atmosphere of Ernst's "forest series"—yet it was a forest that existed nowhere.At its center stood a masked figure, gazing at something unseen.Behind it: a distorted moon and a horizon drawn far too near.
A painting that could have belonged in the missing years.
A lost work that might have been.
It felt as though an invisible hand had guided his own.
Weiss affixed a self-made gallery bel to the back:
"1931 Cologne Solo Exhibition."
A bel for an exhibit that never happened, in a worn-out vintage font.
He even added subtle scratches to the frame.
＊
A few days ter—
Weiss stood before a small antique shop.He paused, hand to his brow.
—Is this really the right thing?
He wasn't lying. But it wasn't truth either.Still, he had painted it.It was a work that was never supposed to exist.
He took a breath and pushed open the door.
"Hello."
The shopkeeper looked up.
"I found this in the attic of an old house. I don't know much about it, but it caught my attention..."
He gently unwrapped the painting.
The shopkeeper donned gloves and lifted the painting carefully.He studied the image, then turned to the back, inspecting the bel.
He traced it with his fingers, tapped the frame lightly, listening.
Weiss could hear his own heartbeat.
More than the painting itself,it was the bel that felt most exposing.
As if someone were pointing a knife at him.
—What if he sees through it?
No. Stay calm.
The shopkeeper continued tapping the frame and studying the painting.
Sweat trickled down Weiss's back.
Time moved strangely slow.
Then—
"...This brushwork... could it be..."
Weiss stiffened.
—Please... don't look too closely...
A long silence passed.
Finally, the shopkeeper raised his eyes.
"Do you know Max Ernst?"
Weiss hesitated for a beat, then answered with practiced casualness:
"I've heard the name, but not much beyond that. I just found the painting and thought it looked important."
"I see."
The man stared at Weiss but didn't press further.
"Wait... are you saying this might be... a Max Ernst?"
The shopkeeper didn't answer.He simply continued his appraisal.
Minutes passed—longer, perhaps.To Weiss, it felt eternal.
Then finally—
"...Alright. I'll take it."
"Huh? Does that mean... this is a Max Ernst painting?"
"Let's say it might be. For now."
He offered a price: 1,000 marks.
Weiss had quietly hoped for 3,000.(At the time, 1,000 Deutsche Marks equaled just under 100,000 yen, or roughly 500 euros today.)
Still, he nodded and signed the papers.
He stepped out of the shop and looked up at the cloudy sky.
—This isn't the end.
The painting would one day change hands, be seen again.And maybe... just maybe, it would be accepted as real.
Something had begun.
Weiss smiled faintly and walked on.
His first forgery. His first sale.
To the world, it was just a small event.But for Weiss, it was a giant step in proving his own existence.
And for the art world—
this single step would soon ripple outward.No one yet knew it was happening.
