(Transted from Japanese)

  Weiss left Germany in the spring of his eighteenth year. Just a month after dropping out of school, he boarded a train without hesitation. The reason was simple:

  "Rather than becoming someone, I wanted to find something—something that belonged to no one."

  A vague but familiar sentiment of youth. Still, for Weiss, it was his first true motivation.

  His first stop was Paris. But the allure of the so-called "City of Art" faded the moment he arrived. Outside the station, drunks and tourists mingled. The air reeked of dust, gasoline, and charred bread—a heavy haze bnketing the city.

  It was the age of the hippie. Women strolled in colorful skirts and oversized earrings. Men wore sungsses pushed up on their heads, their long hair and beards blowing in the wind.

  On the street, an old painter puffed on a pipe beside a line of canvases. Nearby, a young man strummed a guitar—badly, but with the raw passion of the blues.

  Weiss headed for a district called Montmartre, a hilly neighborhood brimming with artists and night revelers. As he climbed the slope, his worn soles scraped against the cobblestones.

  He longed to enter one of the cafés, but money was tight, so he soaked in the atmosphere instead. From one café came the sounds of Jean Ferrat's "La Montagne." On the opposite wall, graffiti read: "MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR" and "L'ART OU LA GUERRE (Art or War)."

  In that chaotic age, Paris overflowed with individuality—and Weiss absorbed it all.

  He found a cheap inn on the edge of Montmartre. The ceiling was low, the walls thin. Someone snored in the next bed, shoes still on. Yet for Weiss, it was the first space that truly belonged to him.

  So he drew.

  If there was no paper, he sketched on the backs of matchboxes, on wine bels. In his sketchbook, he experimented with lines that belonged to no one. But inevitably, his hand slipped into someone else's trace. Whenever that happened, he tore the page out, crumpled it, and tossed it out the window.

  One night, as he sketched in an alley, a man stopped beside him. He smelled of oil paint and wore a sweater stained with pigment under his suit jacket.

  "...Is that a Picasso copy?" The man's voice was raspy.

  "Huh? That's mine."

  "Heh. Could've fooled me." The man lit a cigarette. Its sweet, vender-like scent lingered in the air.

  "These days, just looking 'like' someone else won't get you noticed. You need a name, kid."

  "A name, huh."

  "Yeah. A name's a bel. No one opens a can without a bel."

  The man blew smoke into the night and disappeared down the hill. The scent hung there a while longer. Weiss tore up the sketch in front of him.

  ＊

  The next day, a boy about his age invited him at the top of the hill.

  "We're having a bonfire tonight. Should be fun. Come join us."

  Weiss nodded without asking where.

  That night, they gathered by the Seine. A small fire flickered in the stone square, a group of ten youths forming a circle around it. From a boombox bred the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter." They drank beer and wine, speaking freely of dreams and whatever came to mind. One boy tried to charm a girl by strumming Bob Dyn's "Lay, Lady, Lay." Another casually rolled up a joint as if it were routine.

  After a few puffs, someone passed it to Weiss.

  "Here."

  "Huh?"

  "Never tried it?"

  He hesitated but took a drag. The smoke was sweet, slightly heavy, and stung his nose. His head felt light. Time slowed, flowing at one and a half its usual pace.

  "Names are like curses, aren't they?"

  Someone said it from across the fire.

  "Yeah."

  "But without one, you feel like you'll disappear."

  "So what? Let it. What remains is the line."

  Those words struck Weiss.

  He opened his sketchbook. The firelight, smoke, music, and scattered words wove together. And from his hand, a line emerged—not as someone, but as no one.

  ＊

  With every change of season, Weiss changed cities—Brussels, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Munich, Florence. He painted, sold when he could, tossed when he couldn't, then painted again. But no matter where he went, his nameless lines always ended up resembling someone else's.

  Then, one day in Essaouira, a port town in northwestern Morocco, around a bonfire, someone gnced at his sketch id out on a rug and muttered:

  "This... kinda feels like Campendonk."

  Weiss flinched. Campendonk wasn't a name just anyone knew.

  (Why do you know that name?)

  It stirred something buried deep inside him. He couldn't remember where he'd seen it, but somewhere—perhaps in his father's old art book—the name had been there.

  "It's not. I drew it."

  He heard himself say it, without conviction. The boy shrugged and turned back to chat with his friends.

  That night, Weiss couldn't sleep. Wrapped in fire smoke and ocean wind, he opened his sketchbook. His lines extended from his hand—unbound, imitating no one, following only his own rhythm. But as he finished, a thought crept in:

  Was this really my line? If I erase the name, do I become free? Can I still exist without it?

  The next morning, he packed his things and moved on.

  ＊

  Weeks ter, he arrived in Montpellier, southern France. No particur reason. The breeze was warm, the cobblestones dry. That was enough.

  Down a narrow alley, he spotted an ivy-covered building with a small gallery sign: "EXPOSITION." An iron pque, nothing more. He didn't know why he was drawn to it—but his hand reached for the door.

  Inside, silence. White walls. A creaky floor. Just a few paintings hung in the quiet space. Weiss stopped before one.

  No name. But the scenery—it felt familiar. Like someone had stolen it from the back of his memory and painted it.

  "Who painted this?"

  An older woman in the corner of the gallery replied:

  "There's no name. But some people love it."

  "So... an anonymous artist?"

  "Yes. Which means, if someone loves it, it has value."

  Weiss stared at the painting.

  That night, back in his hostel, he opened his sketchbook.

  He didn't draw the city or a scene. Just sat quietly and drew a single line on the white page.

  He didn't pn to show it to anyone. But it felt... closer. Closer to his own line than anything before.

  The bnk hadn't been filled yet. But that night, Weiss realized—

  he could choose to live with the bnk.

  And he resolved to continue his journey— not to become someone,but to keep drawing without becoming anyone at all.

  Not knowing yet that the bnk would lead him to an encounter that would change everything.