Arthur Bennett's flat was small, a ground-floor unit in a tired council block. The wallpaper had once been cream, but now it was yellowed and peeling at the edges. The air was heavy with the smell of old cooking oil, tobacco, and the faint dampness that seeped through the brick. The kind of place no visitor stayed long.
Eleanor Marks sat primly in the worn armchair across from him, her cardigan buttoned, her tote bag placed neatly by her side as though she were simply a polite guest. She accepted the chipped mug of tea Arthur handed her with a gracious smile.
"You've lived here long?" she asked softly, cradling the mug but not drinking.
"Thirty years," Arthur said with a small chuckle, lowering himself into his own chair. His joints cracked as he sat. "Back when it was decent, mind you. Not like now. You should've seen this place in the eighties."
Eleanor nodded, encouraging him with her eyes. That was her gift — people always filled silences for her, as though compelled.
Arthur rambled about his bus route, the faces he used to see, the endless traffic, the little dramas of London commuters. Eleanor listened with the patience of a saint, her lips curled into that same serene smile. She made him feel interesting again. Seen.
But her mind was elsewhere, ticking, calculating. Every detail of the flat registered in her memory: the layout of the room, the distance from his chair to the window, the way the front door lock stuck slightly when it closed. She had done this before, countless times, and every movement was part of a ritual.
When his words faltered, she tilted her head, her tone dropping lower.
"Arthur... do you ever regret anything?"
The question silenced him. His brow furrowed. "Regret?"
"Yes," she said gently, as though coaxing a child. "Things left undone. Words unsaid. Do you feel you wasted your time?"
Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I s'pose everyone has a few."
"Tell me one," Eleanor said, her voice calm, patient, but edged with something that made the old man shiver.
He glanced at her, confused, then looked away. "I... I wasn't the best husband. Used to drink too much, came home angry." His voice cracked slightly. "I should've treated her better."
Eleanor leaned forward, her eyes luminous in the dim light. "Good," she murmured, almost approving. "Another."
He frowned. "What's this about?"
"Confession is cleansing," she replied softly, her lips curling upward. "Say it aloud. Give your regrets to me."
Arthur stared at her, bewildered, but her gaze held him fast. Something about those pale blue eyes stripped him bare. Against his better judgment, he whispered, "I wasn't there for my boy. He wanted me at his football match once... I never showed. He never asked me again."
Eleanor's smile widened slightly. "Yes. That's it. More."
By the time Arthur realized he was spilling out his life's failings to a stranger, her hands were already in her tote bag.
The rope slipped around his shoulders before he could rise. He gasped, trying to push her away, but Eleanor moved with the speed of practice. She looped the coarse cord around his chest and arms, tying him to the chair with efficient, almost mechanical precision.
"Wait—wait, what are you doing?" he cried, thrashing weakly.
"Shhh," she whispered against his ear, tightening the knot. "It's all right. Keep talking. I want your regrets."
Arthur's heart pounded in his chest. His face flushed with terror as he pulled at the ropes, but the chair only creaked under his struggles. Tears welled in his eyes. "Please, I don't understand—"
"Of course you don't," Eleanor said, brushing his damp forehead with her fingertips in a strangely tender gesture. "No one ever does. You've been ignored your whole life, Arthur. Forgotten. I'm giving you the chance to be heard. So confess."
His lips trembled. "I—I should've written to my sister before she died. We never spoke again after the row. I should've—" His voice broke. "I should've been a better man."
Eleanor watched him with rapt attention, as though he were an experiment performing exactly as expected. "Good boy," she said softly. "Now, let's finish."
Her hands slid the rope higher, looping it around his throat. His eyes widened in horror.
"No... no, please—"
"It's all right," Eleanor cooed, tightening the rope until it bit into his skin. "This is your absolution."
He choked, legs kicking helplessly against the stained carpet. The mug of tea toppled, spilling across the floor. His eyes bulged, his face purpled, and still she pulled, steady and unyielding.
"Breathe your last regret," she whispered coldly. "Give it to me."
But there was no more breath left to give.
Arthur Bennett's body sagged in the chair, his final confession hanging in the air like smoke. Eleanor eased the rope free, smoothing his hair back with gentle fingers, as though she had merely comforted him to sleep.
She placed his hands neatly in his lap, adjusted the chair, and surveyed the scene. To anyone else, it would look like a sad burglary gone wrong in a lonely flat. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing that would point to her.
Satisfied, she picked up her tote, checked the door for fingerprints, and stepped silently back into the night.
On the street, London bustled as if nothing had happened. Cars passed, voices laughed in the distance, buses rumbled along their routes.
Eleanor Marks slipped her gloves into her bag, straightened her cardigan, and smiled to herself.
Tomorrow, she would bring biscuits to the office again.