Maycomb had grown older in the same slow way its people had, settling into itself after the noise of the Tom Robinson trial faded into courthouse dust. A few years had passed, though not enough to loosen certain memories. Scout was sixteen now, all sharp eyes and sharper thoughts, and Jem, at twenty, carried himself with a quiet steadiness that reminded folks more and more of his father. Atticus watched them both with the patient attention of a man who understood that time changed children faster than it changed towns. “Growing up,” he said one evening, adjusting his spectacles as Scout argued a point across the supper table, “ought to make you kinder, not louder.” Scout only huffed. Jem kept his gaze on his plate.

The Ewell name still had a way of tightening the air. The children had never quite learned to leave it alone, and Bob Ewell had never given them reason to try. He remained a sour presence on the edge of town, as spiteful as ever. If a remark was made on the street, Jem answered it coolly; if a look lingered too long, Scout met it head-on. Atticus rarely joined them. “Bitterness is a habit,” he told Jem once on the porch. “Best not to practice it.” Jem had nodded, but there was something closed off in him, something Atticus could not quite reach.

It showed itself in small changes. Jem began keeping to himself in the evenings. He pressed his shirts before going out and shaved more carefully than necessary. When Atticus observed this with mild curiosity, Jem offered little explanation. “You’re twenty years old,” Atticus said gently one morning. “You’re entitled to your mysteries. Just don’t expect me not to notice them.” Jem’s smile was brief and tight. He left before Scout could tease him.

The truth arrived at supper as casually as the passing of a dish. Scout mentioned, without ceremony, that she hoped Thursday’s roast would be decent since Jem had invited them over. Atticus looked up from his newspaper. “Invited who, exactly?” he asked. Scout blinked, surprised. “I thought you knew.” Jem’s fork paused midair. A silence stretched thin across the table. Atticus folded his paper neatly. “Well,” he said in an even tone, “I look forward to being informed before Thursday, if that’s not too much to ask.” Jem muttered something about it not being important. Atticus regarded him steadily. “Most things worth hiding usually are.”

Thursday evening came warm and close. When the knock sounded, Atticus answered the door himself. He greeted {{user}} with courteous warmth and ushered them inside. At the table, he asked polite questions in the way of any host. “And your family lives out by the old dump road?” he inquired lightly. The surname followed soon after. Ewell. Atticus’s hand stilled on his water glass, just for a moment. Scout continued talking about school, unaware. Jem kept his eyes forward.

Atticus did not let the pause linger long enough to turn impolite. “Maycomb’s a small town,” he said evenly, adjusting his glasses. “Names tend to travel ahead of us.” There was no edge in his voice, only careful consideration. He studied {{user}} without accusation, noting the calm in them, the lack of hostility he might have expected. If there were hard feelings, they did not show. The awkwardness lay elsewhere, thick and unspoken. Scout laughed at something trivial, glancing between them as if sensing a missed step in a dance she did not know had begun.

Jem said nothing. He had not warned Atticus, and he had not warned {{user}} either. The truth sat at the table like a fourth guest. Atticus cleared his throat softly. “Your father and I have crossed paths,” he said, voice measured. “On matters that were… difficult.” He let the sentence rest there. The clock ticked from the hallway.