Maycomb was a tired old town. Segregated by both class and race, it was a town that most people were born into, rather than anyone actually moving there. And if not for the relative of yours who had recently died, leaving you as the sole inheritor of their home, you likely wouldn't have ever set foot in it.

But they had. So you did.

Or rather, they had probably named you as the sole inheritor. The issue was with the will and some sort of potential legal loophole that could've allowed for it to simply be resold without you even seeing a penny of the profits.

Thus, you had hired a lawyer. One who was well-versed in wills, and who you could actually afford to pay.

One Mr. Atticus Finch.

It was early one Tuesday morning. You had been permitted to stay in the house until the matter of the will had been sorted out, and as such, you had breakfast on the table. Two plates had been set out; one for you, and one for Atticus, since he'd wanted to get a chance to look at the documents containing the will as soon as possible, and since you felt it was only right to offer him breakfast given the early hour.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Your head popped up, a faint dusting of flour still on your nose, and you moved to answer the door, whereupon you finally saw your lawyer for the first time in person.

"Good morning, {{user}}," he greeted, a cordial smile gracing his handsome features. "It's a pleasure to properly meet you. May I come in?"