The verdict was delivered on a calm day that carried the scent of spring.

In a courtroom, the charges and sentence were read out in an unemotional tone. Clarisse was not present, but Weiss quietly accepted the outcome.

After the verdict, he was transferred from the detention facility on the outskirts of Cologne to a prison in Brühl, Rhineland.

The prison was a former monastery, repurposed into a solid stone structure steeped in silence and strict regulations. Meals mainly consisted of bread and potatoes, occasionally accompanied by a small sausage. Food was served three times a day at fixed times, and the lights were turned off at 9 p.m. Contact with the outside world was tightly controlled, and visits were limited to once a week, for no more than twenty minutes.

In his new solitary cell, Weiss spent his days with quiet resignation.

There were no brushes or art supplies, but still—the act of “painting” continued within him, through memory and gaze.

＊

Several days later, Clarisse visited the Brühl prison for a scheduled meeting.

First came the mandatory inspection. All personal belongings, including any items brought for the inmate, had to be presented to the officer. One item made the staff raise an eyebrow.

“What’s this...?”

The officer pointed to a rolled-up object, cylindrical in shape.

“This? Just a copy of a famous painting. Don’t tell me there’s an issue with that?”

The officer unrolled it, held it up to the light briefly, then returned an expression of disinterest.

“Well... it doesn’t seem dangerous. We’ll hold onto it.”

Clarisse narrowed her eyes and smiled.

“…You don’t recognize it? This painting? A little art education would go a long way.”

The officer said nothing more and placed the rolled-up artwork in the reception basket.

Clarisse passed down a hallway and was escorted into the visitation room. In the center of the space were two chairs, separated by a thick glass barrier. Below the glass was a narrow opening—there were no telephones in this setup.

She quietly took her seat, folding her hands neatly on her lap. The room was hushed, the only sound being the ticking of the clock on the wall. From beyond the steel door, footsteps and the occasional cough drifted in and out of the silence.

She lowered her gaze and focused her eyes on her fingers, consciously relaxing her hands and taking deep breaths.

──How long had passed?

Just as she looked up, the door opened with a soft creak, and Weiss entered quietly.

He approached at his usual pace and sat opposite her, eyes meeting through the glass.

“...You’ve lost some weight,” she said softly.

“Really? Well, the food here isn’t bad. A bit low on salt, though.”

There were few words, but they were enough. Clarisse smiled faintly.

As their limited visitation time neared its end, Clarisse passed the rolled artwork to the officer.

“...Open it later, in your cell. Not now.”

“Got it.”

The chime signaling the end of the visit rang. Weiss stood, and Clarisse followed suit.

“...Thank you. For coming.”

“It’s too early for thanks.”

They shared one last look through the glass, and Clarisse turned and walked away.

Back in his cell, Weiss carefully unrolled the artwork.

Inside was a reproduction of Hendrick Avercamp’s Winter Landscape with Skaters.

A winter village. People skating on a frozen river. A barking dog, a horse-drawn sleigh, laughing children, and adults in conversation.

It was the painting he had first seen as a boy—the one that made him feel like he had entered a world inside a painting.

With his eyes lowered, he stared at it in silence for a long time. Then, with a soft exhale, he leaned it gently against the wall and whispered:

“...Thank you, Clarisse.”

It was a voice meant for no one. And once again, his gaze returned to that wintry world within the painting.

＊

The next morning.

Claris was boiling water as usual.

The faint whistle of the small kettle was the only sound echoing through the kitchen.

She placed a mug on the wooden table and opened her laptop.

After scanning through the news sites, she logged into Twitter.

This had become part of her morning routine.

Several replies had arrived on her previous day’s post.

“Thank you for your words again this morning.”

“Your posts always give me strength.”

—Her words had certainly reached someone.

Rosen’s advice came to mind:

“Sometimes, people who say ‘something’ from time to time are stronger than those who say nothing at all.”

Claris smiled and opened the Twitter post field.

“Somewhere out there today, someone is looking at someone else’s painting.

And just that alone... feels like a kind of salvation.”

She hit the send button, picked up her mug, and sat by the window.

The outside air was still cold—just on the edge of spring.

＊

Meanwhile, Rosen had just finished interviewing witnesses for another case in Berlin and stopped by a café to grab a takeout coffee.

As he waited, he overheard two young women near the register glancing at a tablet on display.

“Weiss’s wife posts something every morning—little reflections on life and painting.”

Rosen tested the temperature of his coffee and gave a quiet chuckle.

“The wind’s still blowing, huh…”

That evening, a notification pinged from Claris’s laptop.

She clicked it—another DM.

“Dear Ms. Claris Auer,

We are a French news program focused on European art and social movements.

We’ve been deeply moved by your recent activity and the growing support for Mr. Weiss.

We’d love to request an interview, if you would be willing.”

Claris quietly closed the laptop.

“This isn’t my story.”

That was her answer.

Just then, another ping.

“A busy day…”

The sender’s handle: @marina_draws—the university student who had once sent her a long message.

“I know this is presumptuous, but we’ve finished setting up the crowdfunding campaign.

With everyone’s support, we’re hoping this can lead to something brighter.”

Claris stared at the screen for a while.

She let out a breath, so faint it wouldn’t be noticed by anyone, and gently moved her finger to the reply button.

A soft glimmer lit her eyes.

That light was already illuminating the next chapter of a story not yet finished.

＊

A few nights later.

Only a small desk lamp lit the room, casting soft shadows along its edges.

On the computer monitor, a video call application was open.

— @marina_draws

Claris had exchanged several DMs with her, but this was their first face-to-face conversation.

As the screen connected, a young woman appeared, slightly nervous.

“Good evening, Ms. Claris. Um... My name is Marina Stein. I’m a painting major at the Berlin University of the Arts.”

Tucking her hair behind one ear, Marina offered a shy smile.

Behind her, the blurry outlines of several young people could be seen peering at her laptop.

“Good evening. And thank you. Your messages were always so thoughtful. I’m glad to finally see your face.”

Claris responded with her calm, composed tone.

“I wanted to give you an update… Could you take a look at the final version of the crowdfunding page before it goes live?”

Marina dropped a link into the chat. Claris clicked it open.

— “A Forgery That Surpassed the Real”

~ A Support Project for the Release of Painter Adalbert Weiss ~

Beside the title was one of Weiss’s paintings—

Warm brushstrokes, a landscape that felt familiar yet belonged nowhere.

“This title…”

“It started as a hashtag among fans on social media. Nobody even remembers who posted it first.

But it caught on—because that’s how people feel.”

Claris lowered her eyes just slightly.

“That’s an honor. If he heard it… I think he’d smile… and then fall silent.”

Marina gave a sheepish laugh.

“We’ve also listed the bail goal and outlined our efforts. We’re trying to reach as many people as we can.

If it’s not too much to ask, we’d love to include a message from you at the top of the page.”

Claris paused, quietly, before she began to speak—

not rushing, as if she were gently searching for the words.

“I only want people to know… that he was the one who painted them.

If someone could understand even a little of the time those lines contain, that’s enough for me.”

Marina nodded deeply and continued, cautiously.

“Ms. Claris… would it be alright to also include your words in the ‘Reference’ section?

Of course, as a separate voice—not as part of the official campaign.”

Claris thought for a brief moment, then gave a small nod.

“Yes, that’s fine.

But I’m just the one behind the scenes. Just one of the many shadows, unseen and out of view.”

Marina bowed deeply toward the camera.

“Thank you… truly. We’ll do our best.”

Once the call ended, Claris slowly closed the screen.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips, dissolving into the night air.

Outside the window, the moon glowed faintly—

a pale promise of spring to come.

And far away, in a solitary prison cell,

a man still unaware of that light slept on, quietly.