Ben
Okay. From the start again — before the restaurant. What time did you actually leave the flat, not what time you meant to leave.
Ask them to go through it again from the beginning. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.
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voices Weary
Nell
Seven-fifteen. Definitely. The kettle was still warm from the evening before. I remember checking the microwave, thinking about the milk expiry date. It was close, but I hadn’t thrown it out yet. Why do you need the exact minute? I was ready. I had my coat on.
Ben
Kettle warm from the night before doesn't tell me the time, it tells me you didn't boil it that morning. So — coat on, door shut, and then what. Where were you at half seven.
Nell
Half seven? I was on the stairs. The lift was broken again. I took the steps slowly, counting them, because my ankle was acting up. It’s always acting up when I’m in a hurry. I remember the smell of the stairwell. Litmus paper. That’s the word. Wet, dusty litmus. I was mostly just trying to breathe.
Ben
Litmus paper doesn't smell like anything, that's just chalk and damp. Stairs from your floor take four minutes, you've told me before. So half seven to the street — where'd the other twenty go.
Nell
Burned. I sat on the step outside my door. Just sat. Thinking about the milk. It wasn’t that important, but the thought kept looping. I stared at the peeling paint on the landing. There was a crack there, shaped like a knife. I watched it for a long time. Didn't move.
Ben
Twenty minutes staring at a crack over spoiled milk. That's the part I keep snagging on. What were you actually waiting for on that step.
Nell
Waiting for the lift. I knew it was broken, but I just stood there. Hoping the engineer had come through. It’s stupid, I know. I kept checking my phone, but there was no signal. Just the hum of the fridge from my apartment bleeding through the door. I could smell it. Toast. Burnt toast. Which is impossible because I hadn’t made any.
Ben
Burnt toast you didn't make, litmus paper that doesn't smell, milk you keep circling back to. That's three things now that don't add up. Who was in the flat.
Nell
No one. I live alone. The landlord’s key is in my pocket, that’s it. You’re hearing things. Or making them up. It’s the way your mind works when you’re tired. Just like my ankle was acting up. It’s always acting up. I didn’t make toast. I never do toast in the morning. It’s too much effort.
Ben
"You're hearing things" — I'm just repeating what you told me. Landlord's key you mention now for the first time. When does he usually come by?
Nell
He doesn’t. He hasn’t been in weeks. I’ve been meaning to change the lock. The key’s just... there. In my pocket. I must have picked it up from the table. Or the floor. I don’t remember where I left it. It’s probably rusted by now. Salt air. Always damp in here.
Ben
Weeks since he's been in, but you said the toast smell came through the door — from your own flat. So either someone was in there, or you were, and you weren't on the stairs at all.
Nell
I was on the stairs. I told you. The smell... it’s the vents. Old building. They carry everything from the kitchen below. Mrs. Gable’s cooking. She makes toast every morning. It smells like ash and regret. That’s what it is. Regret. Not me.
Ben
First a stranger in your flat, now Mrs Gable downstairs. Convenient how the smell has an owner as soon as I push. Who's Mrs Gable — has she been in this story before today?
Nell
She’s always been there. Fourth floor. You’ve met her. She brings over parcels I’m not expecting. The smell was just... vivid. My memory’s shot. I’m tired. Let’s go. I have to be at work. The sink is leaking again and I don’t want to talk about it.
Ben
I've never met her. And you were headed to a restaurant, not work — that was the whole reason for this morning. Which is it.
Nell
Work. I had to stop by. Just for a minute. To drop off files. Then the restaurant. You’re twisting it. I’m exhausted. My head is pounding. The lights are too bright in here. Can we just go? I don’t want to argue about Mrs. Gable. She’s a nuisance. Always watching.
Ben
The restaurant was your whole reason for the morning and now it's a stop you made "for a minute." Let's leave the flat for now — tell me about the menu. What was wrong with the translation.
Nell
It was fine. The text was clear. "Pan-seared scallops." That’s what it said. I don’t know what you expected. It wasn’t a code. It wasn’t hidden. You’re looking for ghosts in the grammar. The waiter was rude, sure, but the menu was standard. Why does it matter? I ordered the wine. It was cheap. That’s all I remember.