(Transted from Japanese)

  —I didn't yet know what a "line" could mean.

  The year was 1965.Postwar Germany was slowly regaining its vitality.In the major cities, cars wove through traffic beneath neon lights, the tide of modernity crashing forward.But in small towns like H?xter, nestled in the west of the country, traces of the old world still lingered—stone-paved streets, timber-framed houses leaning together like whispers of the past.Televisions and refrigerators had only just begun to spread into ordinary homes.People spoke of the future, but still seemed to drag the shadow of the past behind them.

  One Sunday morning,the church bells tolled dully through the air of H?xter.A boy named Adalbert Weiss—fourteen years old at the time—watched his father's back.

  His father, staring up at the vaulted ceiling of the church, held a long brush in hand,restoring a faded fresco.He carefully added gold highlights to an angel's wing—stroke by delicate stroke,as though time itself was dissolving into the wall.Silence wrapped the space like a shroud.

  Weiss stood nearby, palette in hand, mixing paints at his father's command.He adjusted the colors and handed them over, wordlessly.There was little conversation.But through these repeated, ritual-like tasks,the basics—brushwork, color blending, composition—began to seep into his bones.

  Watching his father work, strict yet deliberate,became Adalbert's first real "art education."

  "That's not right. Add a touch more red."

  Those were his father's first words that morning.

  His father was a conservator of art,once a well-known muralist.After the war, churches across the region sought his skill.But he rarely spoke of himself.

  Adalbert's mother had once mentioned, in passing,that his father had been taken prisoner in both Russia and France during the war.

  Perhaps because of that, the lines his father drew always seemed... quiet.Cautious, unwavering, as though retracing old wounds.To young Weiss, those lines felt stifling—precise, but lifeless.

  Weiss's father eventually finished the day's work.He washed his brush quietly and stepped over to the church window for a smoke.Adalbert remained before the mural, staring into the angel's eyes.

  "He's not looking at you."

  His father spoke from behind.Without turning, Weiss asked softly:

  "Then... who is he looking at?"

  "Only the one who painted him would know."

  That was his father's way. Then suddenly—

  "Stay there a moment."

  He stood, rummaged through a drawer, and pulled out a worn sheet of paper.He handed it to Adalbert.

  "Try copying this."

  The page showed a quiet scene—a mother and child standing by the sea.Muted tones. Somber expressions.There was a kind of darkness, a ck of light, even in their faces.

  (It feels... sad.)Weiss thought, but nodded without protest.

  His father stared at the image for a while, thinking,This will take him weeks,then quietly left the church and headed home.

  At the time, Weiss had no idea the painting was a work from Pablo Picasso's Blue Period—titled Mother and Child by the Sea, created around 1902–1903.

  But to him, it didn't matter who had painted it.What mattered was this:he was free to draw.Free to lose himself in the lines and the colors.

  That weekend, Weiss hardly left his room.He drew, redrew, yered paint,softened expressions, brightened tones—He added his own feeling to it,as though repainting it into existence.

  By the end of the weekend,it was finished—far sooner than his father had expected.

  ＊

  On Monday morning,Weiss showed the completed copy to his father.

  He stared at the piece in silence.

  "...Hmm."

  A single nod—Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

  But something was different.His shoulders were stiff, his posture tighter—as if he were suppressing surprise.As if his silence masked a quiet shock.

  —

  That evening,after returning from school,Weiss found himself drawn to the attic.

  He didn't know why, but he needed to know—Who had painted that image?Why did it feel so heavy?

  Digging through dusty old shelves,he found a thick, forgotten art book.Flipping through its pages,his fingers stopped.

  There it was—the painting he had copied.Mother and Child by the Sea.The artist: Pablo Picasso.

  The name lit something inside him.

  Geometric forms.Sharp angles.Eyes that stared with an eerie stillness.

  Weiss pulled out a sheet of paper and began to draw.But this time, it wasn't copying.Not tracing.It was like he was recreating the work with his own lines.

  The next day,he showed the sketch to a teacher.Pced it on a desk in the staff room.

  "This is yours? ...Doesn't really resemble it.But I'll admit—it's well done."

  Weiss said nothing.He just nodded.

  That was the first time.The first time he felt his line was "wrong"—and yet, he felt a strange peace in that rejection.

  When he drew,he felt like he could become someone else.

  ＊

  In the spring of his seventeenth year,Weiss dropped out of school.

  He had been attending a Gymnasium—a college-preparatory high school.Teachers said he had a future.His mother believed it without question.And his grades weren't bad.

  But to Weiss,what he learned in school began to feel like "copying answers already written."Tiresome. Lifeless.

  One morning, after breakfast,he turned to his mother at the sink.

  "I've decided to quit school."

  She stopped washing the dishes,turned off the tap,and stood in silence.

  At the time, student protests were erupting across the country.Newspapers and television spoke of a "turning point" in the era.

  Weiss didn't voice it often,but he too felt it—a dissonance with simply following "the way things have always been."

  The world, the school,it all seemed to revolve around fixed answers.

  His mother finally asked:

  "But why? You never hated art css."

  "I didn't. But... there's nothing left to draw there."

  "The teacher said you could go to university.You're smart. Why throw that away?"

  She trailed off, visibly confused.

  "That's not enough of a reason to quit school. Think it over a bit more—"

  "I have."

  "Don't just say you have—! Say something, won't you!?"

  She raised her voice.Weiss's father lifted his eyes from the table.

  "Adalbert.You made this decision yourself?"

  "...Yeah."

  "Then let it be."

  His mother turned, shocked.

  "You're serious? You're not going to stop him?"

  His father paused, then said:

  "A line drawn by someone else doesn't move the heart of the viewer."

  It was the first time Weiss heard such honesty from the man who had taught him to paint.

  And those words stuck with him—long after.

  "...Hmph."

  His mother let out a small sigh,and said nothing more.

  That night,his father quietly pced a book on Weiss's desk.An old art book pulled from the back of the shelf.

  Weiss saw it as soon as he entered his room.He flipped through the pages.One entry caught his eye.

  "Girl and Swan, 1919.Heinrich Campendonk.Location unknown."

  No picture.No description.Just a bnk space.

  Staring at that empty square,Weiss gave a faint smile.

  "If the one who paints it is the real creator—then I exist."