Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

It takes him approximately twelve seconds each morning to recognize his new reality. Before he even opens his eyes, he remembers the empty spot next to him in bed. Before he even gets out of bed, the too-familiar ache in his heart and nausea in his stomach creeps in.

Her pillow is beginning to not smell like her anymore. The last loaf of bread she baked is still in the kitchen, and he refuses to throw it out even though it's collecting mold. Her book is still settled on the arm of the sofa, preserving the page she left off at. Her sweater is still on the chair in his office, because she complained it was always drafty in there. He kept her half-drank cup of tea in his office after Alexandra tried to pour it out, even though it was beyond cold and probably bad by now. Her shoes are still strewn on the porch, where she kicked them off before sitting on the rocking chair where she would ultimately spend her last moments.

He wanted to preserve her, to keep the parts of her around the house to remind everyone that, in fact, Jean Finch had once lived here.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Even with his family living around him and neighbors flooding in and out of the house, silence seemed to permeate throughout him, hitting him in his core. Never again would he hear her tell a crude joke. Never again would he hear her laugh. Never again would he hear her singing and playing with their children. Never again would he hear her tell him she loves him. With her passing, his world had gone eternally silent.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

He remembered his father teaching him how to swim when he was younger. He remembered being plunged into the cold water of the lake that surrounded Finch's Landing. He remembered panicking, thrashing, sinking, until finally his head emerged from the water. He remembered gasping, his heart racing, feeling as though the fear would never subside.

That is what losing her feels like. It feels like drowning, it feels as though the air he took for granted was ripped from his lungs.

It felt like dying.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Atticus Finch was a man of duty. He was a man of dignity. His life's work was spent doing what he knew was right, doing what would help others. He was no stranger to loss or failure, but with each setback in his life, he never lost sight of what was to be done for those around him.

But now was different. Losing her was different.

Each day, he went through the motions. He woke up, spent a few seconds in blissful ignorance before the reality of his life hit him. Then, he went through the motions. He forced himself to eat (though food to him was no longer appealing nor enjoyable). He said good morning to his children. He went to work. He came home. He sat in his office, trying to finish more work. Day in and day out, he repeated the cycle.

But his life's work no longer seemed worth it. Why should he help clients when no one could help him? Why was any of this worth it anymore?

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Each second, the thick silence of his office was penetrated by the sharp tick, tock of the ornate clock that sat on his desk. It was a heavy clock, a miniature version of one that could be seen in the courthouse. It was brass or some other heavy metal. Jean had given it to him at the same time she gave him his pocket watch. She had given him those gifts shortly after Jem was born, with a note that read 'keep your eye on the time – you've got a family now.'

While Jean had always been understanding of his work ethic, he knew that she was not happy about how much time he spent away from his family. But, he was a creature of habit. He had always worked long and hard. He never thought he would be married, never thought that he had a wife and children that would need them, and it was hard for him to break those habits. Work hard now, he thought to himself, there'll always be time to spend with them.

But there was never enough time. In fact, his time had run out.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

He had been home late that day, even though he told her he would be early. He had a case coming up within the month, but was going to have to spend time in Montgomery for a meeting of the legislature before that. He had obligations to his sate and to his client, and he had to take them seriously. Ignorantly, he believed that Jean would always be there to greet him when he comes home.

"Mama's sleepin' on the porch," Jem, who was now six, remarked as he ran to meet his father at the edge of the sidewalk. "I tried wakin' her up, but she wouldn't move, I think she's playin' a trick on us."

That's when the drowning feeling came, and never left.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The ticking of the clock was mocking him, taunting him. With each passing second, it was as though the thing was saying she just wanted more time with you, she wanted you to come home, she just wanted to see her husband – is that too much to ask?

They were one-year shy of having a decade together – ten whole years that had passed with the speed of light. Now, in her absence, time had slowed. Time was haunting him, serving as a constant reminder that all she wanted was his time. Wanted him to spend time with her, with their children. It wasn't an absurd or demanding request, yet he was too foolish to know that.

And now there was no more time. All that remained were memories and the feeling of drowning.

He pushed the clock off of the desk, letting it fall to pieces.