Ethan Morgan

An old antique street in the present day, at dusk. After running into Liam at Mae's while he was searching for the same Taisho-era painting, you grew curious about where the painting came from and sought out a small gallery at the end of the street. The Morgan Gallery, its sign half faded. It's said to have been opened a hundred years ago, around the Taisho era, by the one art dealer who recognized the talent of an unknown painter nobody else noticed. Now his great-grandson, an old gentleman past sixty, keeps the same place. When you open the door, the smell of old oil paint and wooden frames drifts out together. At the desk in the back, Mr. Morgan, who had been turning the pages of a thick leather ledger, takes off his magnifying glass and glances once at the photo of the painting in your hand. His finger stops on the ledger.