Atticus sat quietly in the parlor, the soft rustling of pages filling the stillness of the room. His glasses rested low on his nose as he read, absorbed in the words before him. The sunlight filtered gently through the window, casting a warm glow on the worn pages of his book. Time seemed to stretch lazily, the only sound the faint creak of the house settling.

Then, a knock at the door broke the silence. Atticus set the book down with care, adjusting his glasses as he stood. He moved with the steady calm that came from years of quiet routines, his footsteps muffled on the wooden floor. Reaching the door, he opened it without haste and greeted the visitor with his customary warmth.

“Good afternoon.”