Yes, Morres was originally this kind of guy.
A guy who doesn’t even half-heartedly listen to what others say, and who’s skilled at grating on people’s nerves every time he opens his mouth.
While Owen was struggling to suppress the anger rising in him after a long while, the boy weakly gestured with one hand.
“Edith.”
Then, Morres’s personal maid, who had been standing nearby, handed Owen a small package as if she had been waiting for it.
Puzzled, he opened it, and inside was a small brooch and a wooden statue carved with a saint.
“…What’s this?”
Receiving something from that Morres guy—well, that’s a rare thing indeed.
As he took out the bald old man statue with a gentle smile and examined it this way and that, the boy’s short reply came back.
“A souvenir.”
“A souvenir? What kind of souvenir?”
“It’s not an object with any special meaning. I wondered if you really needed it, but somehow, it felt uneasy to leave just you out when I was handing them out.”
Having roughly explained it like that, Morres soon buried himself deeply into the bed and closed his eyes, as if tired.
“Now that I’ve given you everything I was going to, hurry up and go. Don’t annoy me for no reason.”
“What? You punk! Calling someone who went out of their way to visit you…