Winter in Brühl was always quiet.

  Snow fell silently on the brick walls, and few figures passed along the street.

  Weiss sat in his dimly lit studio, staring out the window.

  This was already his fourth forgery.

  He had been obsessed with filling in the bnks—yet tely, the paintings felt hollow, as if they'd lost their soul.

  Three years had passed since he came here. Day after day, Weiss devoted himself to completing the missing works of Ernst.

  But now, something was missing.

  This pce, once sacred, now felt suffocating.

  —Perhaps I no longer have a reason to paint here.

  So he thought, his gaze drifting to the dry, untouched canvas.

  ＊

  Under a cloudless blue sky, Weiss stood at Montpellier station.

  Yes—he had returned to France.

  His first visit had been aimless wandering, but this time was different.

  He had come to retrace Ernst's footsteps.

  Not to Paris, nor Marseille—but here, in this city.

  "Three years since Montpellier... Feels like a lifetime ago."

  The cover of his old sketchbook still bore faint sun-faded marks.

  The morning light here was stronger than in Brühl.

  The air was dry, and someone was already sipping red wine at a café terrace.

  Seated on the balcony of a small apartment, Weiss looked up at the sky.

  —This time, I'll paint the "French era" of Ernst.

  Renting a studio here had been the right move.

  Montpellier offered a kind of light and flow of time he could never find in Brühl.

  What Weiss didn't know yet—was that this city would bring a new encounter that would change everything.

  ＊

  In a quiet corner of a bookstore, between the shelves of poetry and art books, Weiss stood still.

  He had been here many times before.

  It was an old, peaceful shop tucked into the stone-paved streets of the old town.

  The scent of paper. The cracked leather bindings.

  It felt like time had settled only in the pces sunlight never reached.

  Weiss was flipping through a collection of poems by Radiguet.

  Not for the verses, but for the handwriting—

  as if seeking in the margins a trace that Ernst might have left.

  That was when it happened.

  The bell over the door rang softly. Someone had entered.

  Footsteps—gentle, practiced. Not heels. A steady, familiar rhythm.

  Before he even turned his eyes, Weiss had already turned his head—

  drawn by the presence alone.

  A white coat. Light hair to the shoulders. Bck-rimmed gsses.

  Beige scks, elegant boots.

  The woman moved behind the shelves, avoiding direct gaze—

  and she was beautiful.

  But more than her appearance, it was the book she picked up that caught his eye.

  "The Age of the 20th Century Museum" —a pin-covered French edition of a critical art volume.

  Not a book many would choose.

  Certainly not in a quiet, old bookstore like this.

  Weiss closed his book and stole a gnce at her profile.

  Every motion was fluid, like something performed.

  Their eyes nearly met.

  He quickly looked away.

  It felt like a test.

  She walked no further, returned the book to the shelf without a word, and exited.

  The bell rang once more, soft and final.

  Weiss stood frozen.

  He had visited this shop countless times—

  but never seen anyone quite like her.

  —Just a coincidence.

  So he told himself.

  Yet, something lingered faintly in his chest.

  ＊

  Cssical records pyed quietly in Weiss's studio.

  Outside the window, a market was open, the voices of people drifting faintly in.

  Weiss stood before his canvas, painting yet another "possible work"—

  this time not by Ernst, but by Emilie Charmy.

  A French female painter whose mid-period works were missing from some records.

  From a few sketches and exhibition notes,

  Weiss built a composition she might have created:

  A woman in profile, hair tied back, seated by a window.

  A light cloth draped across a table.

  The colors were fauvist but subdued.

  Yet, as his brush moved, something felt off.

  The woman's face—

  it was never meant to be clearly rendered.

  But without thinking, he found himself painting the eyes and lips in detail.

  The profile resembled—

  the woman in the white coat.

  The quiet gaze.

  The way she pced the book back without a word.

  Weiss stopped his brush.

  He didn't correct it.

  (This is supposed to be a forgery by Charmy.

  But I don't even know who I've painted.)

  He beled the painting and affixed it to the back:

  "1930, Montmartre, Paris. Unexhibited work."

  He leaned it beside the others to dry.

  But this one felt... different.

  Just slightly, but unmistakably.

  ＊

  In 1980, near Hannover, Germany,

  Weiss was living in an apartment with a spacious studio attached.

  By then, he had been working as a forger for nearly ten years.

  Campendonk.

  His next target.

  He had studied the artist's colors and compositions obsessively.

  Ironically, the brushwork Weiss learned from his father in childhood resembled Campendonk's—

  a strange twist of fate.

  By this time, Weiss was living comfortably off his forgeries.

  Collectors in France and Switzernd had begun to contact him.

  His methods for presenting these "rediscovered" pieces had become increasingly refined.

  In a corner of the studio stood a shelf covered in cloth, hiding several unsold works.

  Some were too early to release. Others cked sufficient backstory.

  After setting aside a sketch of Campendonk, Weiss absentmindedly lifted the cloth.

  Among the paintings, one stood out.

  That portrait.

  The forgery he had created for Emilie Charmy's missing period.

  He had nearly forgotten it.

  But the moment he saw the woman's face again,

  a faint ache stirred in his chest.

  The old bookstore in Montpellier.

  The woman in the white coat, gently returning a book and leaving without a word.

  He had never seen her again.

  (How many years has it been, without even knowing her name?)

  He picked up the painting and held it to the light.

  The brushstrokes were his—

  and yet, they felt like someone else's.

  Something was there.

  Before he realized it, he had pulled out a travel suitcase.

  He hadn't packed for a trip in years.

  "...Maybe I should go."

  It wasn't for business.

  Nor research.

  He simply wanted to see, just once more,

  the person who had found her way into his painting.

  ＊

  Montpellier was as quiet as ever.

  Only the angle of the sun hinted at the years that had passed.

  Weiss returned to that bookstore, hoping—but not expecting.

  Of course, she wasn't there.

  He sighed, knowing it was foolish to think she might be.

  A few days ter, he sank into a theater seat.

  A re-screening of an old French film.

  It was meant as a distraction.

  Then—

  A profile a few rows ahead.

  The hair. The curve of the neck.

  Familiar.

  In the dark, he couldn't be certain.

  The film ended.

  Outside the theater, she turned.

  —It was her.

  Weiss stepped forward and took a breath.

  "Excuse me!"

  She looked surprised, puzzled.

  "...I don't usually do this, but... during the film, I couldn't stop thinking about your profile."

  She blinked in surprise, then gave a small ugh.

  (...Who is this man?)

  She tilted her head, slightly amused.

  Weiss felt oddly reassured by that expression.

  "There's a quiet café nearby. Would you like to join me for a coffee?"

  "Coffee? Now?"

  Crisse hesitated, gncing away.

  "Hmm..."

  (...A complete stranger... should I really?)

  Weiss paused, then offered softly:

  "Ah—sorry. I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Adalbert Weiss."

  She opened her eyes a little wider and smiled faintly.

  "Crisse. Crisse Auer."

  Weiss took a small step closer.

  "Miss Auer, if I didn't speak to you now, I knew I'd regret it."

  Crisse exhaled, rexing slightly.

  "Hmm... well, just for a little while. Okay."

  She nodded gently.

  Weiss felt his heartbeat quicken.

  ＊

  Around 3 p.m., the two of them sat at a café terrace in Pce Saint-Roch, at the heart of Montpellier's old town.

  Soft sunlight touched the edge of the table.

  The clinking of cups and saucers, the faint sweetness of a tart drifting on the breeze.

  Crisse ordered bck tea. Weiss chose an espresso.

  Searching for words, Weiss finally spoke.

  "...This isn't the first time I've seen you."

  Crisse paused with her cup halfway to her lips, raising a curious brow.

  "A few years ago, in that old bookstore—I saw you there."

  "Bookstore?"

  "You stood by the poetry shelves. Wearing a white coat... with bck-rimmed gsses. You picked up a particur book."

  Crisse's lips curved slightly.

  "The Age of the 20th Century Museum — right?"

  Weiss blinked, a little surprised, and nodded.

  "Exactly! You remember."

  Crisse looked down at her tea.

  "...Back then, I was collecting books on authenticity and forgery. That one wasn't a coincidence."

  "I see..."

  "And that day—the shop felt different. Like someone was watching me. I thought, maybe, just maybe, someone would speak to me. But no one did."

  "Yeah... I couldn't say anything."

  Crisse slowly turned her teacup.

  "Tell me, Mr. Weiss. What is it that you do?"

  Weiss hesitated for a moment, then smiled faintly.

  "I'm a painter. I trace the lives of others and fill in the bnks they left behind."

  "...A little too poetic. That only makes you sound more suspicious."

  She smiled pyfully. Weiss ughed softly.

  "Still, every now and then, someone believes me."

  Their words flowed easily. And as the sun dipped lower, a promise to meet again naturally followed.

  ＊

  A few afternoons ter, they met again—not at a café, but after visiting a small gallery tucked into a back alley, they walked together to Weiss's apartment.

  A high-ceilinged space with wooden floors.

  Several unfinished canvases stood by the window.

  "Make yourself at home," Weiss said.

  Crisse looked around as she sat.

  "May I see some of your work?"

  "Of course."

  Weiss pulled a few paintings from the shelf and id them out gently.

  Crisse stared at one of them.

  "Strange... They all seem familiar. Like I've seen them before, but not quite."

  Weiss chuckled, pouring them both a gss of wine.

  "That's my job, after all."

  As they drank, the atmosphere softened.

  Then, without thinking, Weiss let something slip.

  "Actually... that one's a forgery."

  Crisse froze, gss mid-air.

  "...What did you say?"

  Her voice was sharp, the air in the room tightening.

  Weiss looked away, exhaled, and searched for words.

  "A forgery... I imagined what a certain painter might have created—and painted it myself. So in a way, it's my original."

  Crisse said nothing. She simply stared at the canvas.

  "So... not a copy, but a piece that might have existed? Like something Picasso or Van Gogh could have painted?"

  Weiss nodded.

  "Exactly. A unique piece that might have been—something real, that never was."

  Crisse leaned back, staring at the ceiling, then sighed and looked down at her gss.

  (She couldn't believe it... A forger?)

  She said nothing, just moved from one painting to another.

  At first, she was filled with doubt. Confusion.

  But then, slowly—

  she felt it.

  The structure. The color. The conviction.

  Was it the paintings? The method?

  Or perhaps... Weiss himself?

  Without noticing, Crisse thought:

  (This man... might be the one I've been looking for.)

  She finally spoke.

  "...How do you sell them?"

  Weiss looked up, surprised.

  "A forgery isn't enough. You need a backstory, right?"

  He took a sip of wine, then nodded slowly.

  "It's not the painting—it's the origin. I make it appear as if it came from an attic. Sometimes I include a letter, or an old photo."

  Crisse listened intently.

  "So the story beside the painting becomes its proof."

  Encouraged, Weiss continued.

  "Not just books. I hunt for antique frames, replicate gallery bels, even forge articles from old newspapers. Everything must feel like it truly existed."

  Crisse was tracing the rim of her gss.

  Weiss lifted his gss and smiled, a little embarrassed.

  "To be honest... I've made about four or five Ernst forgeries. But I've only sold one—to a small shop in Brühl. Nothing grand."

  "Why not sell more boldly?"

  "Actually... I had a pn. I wanted to paint the ultimate missing piece from Ernst's 'crowds and forest' period—then sell it as real to Werner Spies, the man who compiled Ernst's catalogue raisonné."

  Crisse's hand paused on her gss.

  "Seriously?"

  "Half seriously. I even started preparing for it. But in the end, I stopped. Not because I cked confidence. Something was missing."

  Crisse thought for a moment, then said:

  "What was missing was the story, wasn't it?"

  Weiss looked at her.

  Crisse narrowed her eyes, then raised her gss.

  "Let me write it for you."

  Her voice was calm—but full of certainty.

  From that night, their bond changed.

  Quietly.

  Unmistakably.

  They had become accomplices.