The cab pulled up to the front door and halted, as if the world itself had been pressed against the glass. In the dim light of the window stood his vanished wife.
Enough! How long must we dance with the past? Nicholas flung the photograph onto the table, his voice trembling. Its been a year and a half, Emily. She wont come back.
Inspector Margaret Clarke lifted the picture gently, slipping it back into her folder. Were closing the case, Mr. Andrews. By law enough time has passed to declare Eleanor Whitfield missing.
Do you mean dead, Nicholas muttered, a bitter smile cracking his face.
I didnt say that, Margaret replied softly. Just that the paperwork needs finishing. Please sign here.
He took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping stroke.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone?
Mr. Andrews, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we can.
I know, he said, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Forgive me. Every time you bring that folder, its the same nightmareinsomnia, thoughts, memories
I understand, the inspector said. But if you recall anything that could help
For a year and a half I have replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nicholas shook his head. Nothing. Nothing unusual. A normal morning, a normal breakfast. See you this evening, love. And then she was gone, somewhere between home and work.
Margaret gathered the papers and stood. In my experience, people have returned after three, five years.
And have any of them simply walked away to someone else without a word? Nicholas asked sharply.
She was silent, then nodded. Yes. Though usually they leave a note.
When the inspectors door closed, Nicholas sank into the chair and shut his eyes. A year and a half had slipped by since Eleanor walked out and never returned. No call, no message. Her phone was dead, her cards unused. It was as if she had melted into the earth.
He had tried everythingpolice, private detectives, newspaper ads, internet posts. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew where she was.
The first months were the most terrifying: endless interrogations (of course, a husband is always the prime suspect), frantic searches, false hopes. Then a numbness settled in, a dull ache in his chest, and endless questions without answers.
Why? How could he have missed it? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she still be alive, just unable to reach out? He tried not to think of it.
A phone rang, pulling him from the darkness. The display showed a number from the cab firm.
Hello, Nicholas? the dispatchers voice, weary, said. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Peters is on high blood pressure and were swamped with fares.
Yes, of course, Nicholas said, rubbing his nose. What time?
Sixam, if you can. First run to the airport.
Alright, Ill be there.
Three months after Eleanors disappearance, Nicholas took the wheel again. He had lost his engineering jobmanagement had been patient at first, but endless unpaid leave wore them thin. He could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving a cab fit him: a mechanical task that demanded attention but not deep concentration. No attachmentsfaces flickered past, conversations shifted, stories changed. Today you ferry a commuter, tomorrow a stranger. The only duty was to take someone from point A to point B.
Morning began as usualup at five, a cold shower, strong coffee. He stared at his reflection: a gaunt face, silver at the temples, lines that hadnt been there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, but looking fifty.
His first passenger waited outsidea burly man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. All the way to the airport he rattled on about a trip to Brighton, a motherinlaw who nagged, a boss who was a tyrant. Nicholas nodded, offered nods, but his mind drifted.
The day passed in a blur of railway stations, shopping centres, office blocks, back to a station. Fatigue settled in, but the dispatcher sent one more job.
Nick, could you do a run from River Street to Greenfield Estate? Last one for today, the client is waiting.
Alright, Nicholas sighed, checking the address on his GPS.
The client turned out to be a young woman with a small child. The boy, perhaps three or four, squirmed, refusing to sit.
Tommy, please, his mother pleaded. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the child shouted. I want to see Grandma!
Well visit Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Now we need to get home.
Nicholas waited while they settled. The ride promised to be longthe child whined, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry for the delay, she said once finally seated. Its been a heavy day.
No problem, Nicholas replied, tapping the meter. Greenfield Estate, Lily Lane, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled in the city centre after an accident, holding them in a jam for almost an hour. The boy fell asleep in his mothers arms. She stared out the window, silent. Nicholas turned on soft music, careful not to wake the child.
When they finally emerged from the jam, dusk had fallen. A fine rain drizzled, puddles glimmered on the road. Nicholas drove steadily, fighting a growing headache.
Greenfield Estate lay on the suburbs edgenew builds, tall blocks, still halffilled. Nicholas rarely visited such places; the bland concrete felt soulless.
Right turn here, the woman instructed as they entered the courtyard. And to the third entrance, please.
Nicholas obeyed, stopping at a nondescript seventeenstorey panel block.
Weve arrived, he said, turning off the engine. Thatll be £4.20.
She handed over a fivepound note. No change needed. Thanks for your patience.
Thank you, Nicholas smiled. May I help with the child?
He opened the rear door, the mother handed him the sleeping boy, then slipped inside. Nicholas cradled the child as she paid and gathered her bags.
Take him, she said finally.
Are you sure? Should I drop him at the flat?
No, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
Nicholas placed the boy back in the seat, the child stirred but didnt wake. The woman thanked him again and disappeared down the hallway.
He stepped back to the car, intending to leave, but the rain made the street cold and damp, and the baby slept. He lingered, watching the woman struggle with the heavy door. He started the engine and, looking up, saw a light flickering in a thirdfloor window.
In that glow, a silhouette of a woman appeared, her profile unmistakable: a stray lock of hair tucked behind an ear, the curve of a familiar cheek.
His heart missed a beat, then pounded like a drum. He recognized the gesturea habit of tucking hair behind the ear. He knew it from a thousand memories.
Eleanor. His wife. The one who had vanished a year and a half ago.
He could not recall how he had stepped out of the car, crossed the courtyard, entered the stairwell. He felt as if he were moving through fog, hearing distant voices, feeling unseen eyes upon him. All that mattered was the third floor, the flat with that particular window.
The lift was out of order, so he sprinted up the stairs, breath ragged, reaching the third floor. Four doors waited. He tried to remember which one matched the view he had seen.
He counted from the left; the second door matched the windows position. He pressed his ear to the wood, listening. Silence. His heart thumped so loudly he thought the whole building might hear.
With a trembling finger he rang the bell. A long, agonizing pause. Then footsteps. The lock clicked. The door swung open.
A man in his forties, in homebound trousers and a Tshirt, stood there.
Can I help you? he asked, puzzled.
Nicholas opened his mouth, but words failed him. Where is she? he finally managed. Eleanor Whitfield.
The mans expression shifted from confusion to wariness.
Theres no Eleanor Whitfield here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He began to close the door, but Nicholas caught the handle.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not mad, I swear. Shes my wife, she disappeared a year and a half ago.
The man hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood a woman, the very passenger Nicholas had just dropped off, cradling a sleepy child.
Whats going on, Sam? she asked.
This man claims hes looking for a woman named Eleanor, the husband replied.
The womans eyes widened.
Youre the driver who brought us here! What are you doing in our building?
I saw my wife in your window, Nicholas repeated, stubbornly. Eleanor Whitfield. About shoulderlength dark hair, a mole above the right eyebrow.
The couple exchanged looks. Something in the mans gaze made Nicholas uneasy.
Theres no Eleanor, the husband said. Only me, my wife, and our son.
And Gwendolyn, the woman added quietly. Thats my mothers name.
May I speak with her? Nicholas asked, desperation cracking his voice.
The man shook his head. Shes unwell. It wouldnt be right.
The woman placed a hand on Nicholass shoulder. Sam, maybe we should let him have a look? What could we lose?
Sam frowned. Gwendolyns condition is fragile. Seeing a stranger might upset her.
Please, Nicholas pleaded. I havent known for a year and a half if shes alive. Let me just see her for a minute. If it isnt her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
After a tense pause, Sam nodded reluctantly.
They led Nicholas to a small hallway, the womannow called Lilytook her son to another room, and Sam gestured him forward. He knocked on a closed door, entered without waiting for a response, and shut it behind him.
From the other side came muffled sounds, indecipherable.
Finally the door opened. Sam emerged, his face tight.
You may enter. Please, dont disturb her.
Nicholas stepped into a modest bedroom: a neatly made bed, a dresser, a few framed photographs on the wall. By the window sat a woman in a comfortable chair, staring at the rainy street outside.
She turned, and Nicholass breath caught.
Eleanor. Slightly thinner, hair cropped short, but undeniably her. A faint scar on her chin, the mole exactly where he remembered.
Eleanor, he whispered.
She looked at him, expression blank. Im sorry, you must be mistaken. My name is Gwendolyn.
Her voice was familiar, yet the tone was foreign.
Its me, Nick, he said, moving a step closer, kneeling beside the chair. Your husband Sam. We were married eight years, lived on Rose Street, I work in the library. We wanted a child.
She frowned, a flicker of something passing through her eyes.
Sam? she asked. Whos that?
The man who opened the door, Nicholas replied. Hes our sons father.
Im not Sam, she said, a tremor in her voice. Im Gwendolyn Im Lilys mother.
Nicholas tried to list every detail he knew: the mole, the scar from a childhood bike fall, the fear of heights, the love of strawberry ice cream, the aversion to chrysanthemums.
She touched her chin, feeling the scar. That thats true, she murmured, confused.
Lily entered, eyes wide. Whats happening, Mum?
This man is saying Im someone else, Gwendolyn said, looking at Nicholas. Hes calling me Eleanor.
Sam, the husband, seized Nicholass shoulder. You need to leave, he said firmly.
No! Nicholas shouted, shaking his arm free. You cant just send her away. Shes my wife. Shes been missing for a year and a half!
The room erupted in voices. Sam tried to calm Gwendolyn, Lily pleaded, and Nicholas demanded answers.
Sam finally spoke, his tone weary. A year and a half ago, Lily was returning late from work near the Northern Bridge. She found a woman unconscious on a deserted field. An ambulance took her to hospital, but when she woke shed lost all memoryno name, no address. The police could find no ID, no fingerprints. No one reported a missing woman matching that description.
Lily added, The doctors said it might be permanent amnesia.
Sam continued, We tried to locate her, but nothing turned up. She was discharged with nowhere to go, so we took her in. My mother, actuallyGwendolynhad died a year before, and we thought it was a sign, that wed give this lost soul a home.
Did you ever try to find her real family? Nicholas asked, voice cracking.
We searched, Sam said. We even filed a missingperson report. But the details never matched. When you called, you must have been that report.
Nicholass mind spun. He remembered filing a report the same day Eleanor disappeared.
Gwendolyns eyes filled with tears. I I remember the bridge, the snow, the cold.
She pressed her forehead to the window, as if trying to pierce the drizzle.
Do you recall a white car? Nicholas asked.
Just a car, she whispered, and a man he was harsh.
Lily put a hand on her mothers shoulder. Well help you remember, Mum. But you need time.
Nicholas felt a strange calm settle over him. The desperate need to pull her out now clashed with the reality that she had built a new life in the span of eighteen months.
Well let her decide, Sam said finally. If she wants to be with you, we wont stand in the way. If she chooses to stay, well respect that.
Nicholas swallowed, the anger ebbing into a hollow ache. I wont go to the police, he promised. Just give us a chance to figure this out together.
Gwendolyn gave a weak smile. I think Id like to know you again, she said, her voice trembling.
The room filled with a tentative hope, like the first light after a storm.
Nicholas rose, his gaze lingering on the window where a faint silhouette of Eleanornow Gwendolynwatched the rain. He turned back to the cab, the street now slick with water, the sky clearing to reveal a scattering of stars.
He slipped back into the drivers seat, gave one last lingering look at the thirdfloor window, and raised his hand in farewell. The figure seemed to raise a hand in return.
Tomorrow would be another day, another ride, another chance to learn a familiar love anew.
He would call Inspector Margaret Clarke and tell her the case wasnt truly closed. Lost things sometimes reappear, even after a year and a half, even when hope seems all but extinguished.
Even if it required a cab ride that led to a strangers doorstep, a light on a thirdfloor window, and the strange, dreamlike logic of a world that refuses to be ordinary.
