The cab driver pulled up to the doorstep and froze when he saw his missing wife in the window.
Enough! How many times must we rummage through the past? Nick Anderson tossed the photograph onto the kitchen table, his voice shaking. Its been a year and a half, Ellie. Shes not coming back.
Mr. Anderson, please listen to me, Constable Mary Peters gently lifted the picture and slipped it back into the folder. Were closing the case. By law enough time has passed to declare Poppy Greene officially missing.
You mean dead, Nick said with a bitter smile.
I didnt say that, the officer replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Sign here, please.
Nick took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed in a broad, careless sweep.
Thats it? Youll leave me alone now?
Mr. Anderson, Mary sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. Sorry. Every time you show up with that folder, its like starting over: sleepless nights, endless thoughts, memories
I get it, the constable nodded. But if anything does surface, anything that could help
In the past year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nick shook his head. Nothing. Just an ordinary morning, an ordinary breakfast. See you tonight, love. And that was it. She slipped away somewhere between home and work.
Mary gathered the papers and stood up.
In my experience, people do turn up after three, five years.
And have you ever had a case where the wife just up and left for someone else without a word? Nick asked sharply.
She fell silent, then nodded.
Yes. But they usually leave a note.
When the constable shut the door behind her, Nick sank into his armchair and closed his eyes. A year and a half had passed since Poppy walked out and never returned. No call, no text. Her phone was switched off, her credit cards untouched. It was as if shed dissolved into the ground.
Hed tried everythingpolice reports, private detectives, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew where she was.
The first months were the worst: endless interrogations (of course the husband is the prime suspect), frantic searches, clinging to hope. Then came the numbness, a dull, throbbing ache in his chest, and a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? Did he miss the signs? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Or had something terrible happened? Maybe she was alive but couldnt reach out? He tried not to think about it.
A ringtone snapped Nick out of his gloom. The screen displayed the cab companys number.
Hello, Nick? the tired voice of dispatcher Tamara answered. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Patel is on a pressure slip and weve got a backlog of jobs.
Sure, Nick pressed his nose bridge. What time?
Six oclock, if you can. First run to the airport.
Got it. Ill be there.
Nick had taken up driving a cab three months after Poppy vanished. Hed lost his engineering jobmanagement was patient at first, but endless sick days and unpaid leave finally wore them out. He couldnt focus on calculations or blueprints any more.
Steering a wheel, however, was just right. It required concentration but not intense focus, and the passengers came and went like a revolving door. Today you ferry a businessman, tomorrow a tired mother. No real responsibility beyond getting folks from point A to point B.
His morning began as usualup at five, a cold shower, a strong mug of tea. He glanced at his reflection: a gaunt face, silver at the temples, lines that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, looking like a fiftyyearold.
The first client waited at the curba stout man with two suitcases, jittery and chatty. All the way to the airport he rattled on about a trip to Manchester, his motherinlaws meddling, his bosss eccentricities. Nick nodded, offered the occasional right or absolutely, but his mind was elsewhere.
The day drifted through a train station, a shopping centre, a business park, back to a station. By evening fatigue set in, but the dispatcher asked for one more run.
Nick, can you do one more? From River Road to Greenfield Estate. Last job for today, the passengers already waiting.
Alright, Nick sighed, checking the address on his GPS.
The client turned out to be a young woman with a small child. The boy, about three, whined and refused to get into the boot.
Billy, please, his mother pleaded. Well be home soon, dads waiting.
I dont want to go home! the child shouted. I want Grandmas!
Well visit Grandma on Saturday, I promise. But now we need to get home.
Nick waited while they settled into the back seat. The ride was longtraffic snarled for an hour after an accident up the road. The baby finally calmed, drifting off in his mothers arms. She stared out the window, exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she was finally seated. Its been a hard day.
No worries, Nick replied, tapping the meter. Greenfield Estate, Lime Street, number 17, right?
Thats it.
The journey took longer than expected; a minor pileup held them up, then a gentle drizzle turned the streets slick. Nick kept his eyes on the road, fighting a growing headache.
Greenfield Estate lay on the citys edgenew flats, towering blocks, still halfempty. Nick didnt like the bland concrete, the lack of character.
Turn right here, the woman instructed as they entered the courtyard. Up to the third flat, please.
Nick obeyed, parked in front of a nondescript seventeenstorey block.
Thats the place, he said, turning off the engine. Thatll be £4.20.
She handed him a £5 note.
Keep the change, thanks for your patience.
Cheers, Nick smiled. Let me help with the little one.
He opened the rear door, the mother handed him the sleepy boy, then slipped inside.
Ill take him for a minute, she said. Do you mind?
Not at all, Nick replied, cradling the child.
He waited while she paid and gathered her bags. The rain was still falling, cold and damp, and the child slept soundly against Nicks chest.
When the woman finally pushed the flats door open, Nick glanced up at the thirdfloor windows. One was lit. A silhouette flickered in the yellow glow. His heart missed a beat, then hammered like a drum. He knew the shape, the habit of tucking a stray lock behind the ear.
Poppy. His wife, vanished a year and a half ago.
He didnt remember stepping out of the car, crossing the courtyard, or climbing the stairs. It was as if the world had tilted and hed been pulled along. He felt voices, eyes, an overwhelming pressure on his chest. The only clue: third floor, flat with the lit window.
The lift was out of order, so he bolted up the stairs, breathless, and reached the hallway. Four doors lined the corridor. He counted from the leftsecond door after the landing. He knocked, hand trembling.
A long, uncomfortable pause, then footsteps. The door creaked open.
A man in his forties, in pajama pants and a Tshirt, stood there, looking bewildered.
Yes? he asked.
Nick opened his mouth, but the words tangled.
Who? the man prompted.
Im looking for a woman. Poppy Greene.
The mans expression shifted from confusion to caution.
Theres no Poppy here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He moved to shut the door, but Nick grabbed the handle.
Wait! I saw her, just now, in the window. Im not crazy, I swear. Shes my wife.
The man hesitated, then the door swung wider. Behind him stood the woman Nick had just drivenLucy, the mother, holding the sleeping Billy.
Whats happening, Serge? she asked, bewildered.
This bloke says hes looking for a Poppy, the man replied. Says she was in our flat.
Lucys eyes widened.
Youre the cab driver who just dropped us off! What are you doing here?
I saw my wife in your window, Nick repeated, voice desperate. Poppy Greene, dark hair to her shoulders, a beauty mark above the right eyebrow.
The couple exchanged a glance that made Nicks stomach churn.
Listen, the man said finally. Theres no Poppy here. Only me, my wife, and our son.
And Gwendolyn? Nick asked, eyes darting.
Whos that? the woman asked.
My mother, the man said. Shes been staying with us for the past year.
May I speak to her? Nick begged, his tone raw. Just a minute. If she isnt her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
The man looked torn, but Lucy placed a hand on his shoulder.
Serge, let him have a look. Whats the harm?
Shes delicate, Lucy, Serge muttered. I dont want to upset her.
Please, Nick pleaded. Ive been searching for her for eighteen months. I need to know if this is her.
After a tense pause, Serge nodded reluctantly.
Fine. One minute. No tricks.
They led Nick into a small hallway, past the living room, to a closed bedroom door. Serge knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer.
From the other side, muffled sounds drifted out. After a moment, Serge emerged, his face tight.
You can come in. Just dont startle her.
Nick stepped into a modest bedroom. A single bed, a bedside table with a few framed photos, a chair by the window. In the chair sat a woman, looking out at the rain, her shoulders hunched. She turned slowly, and Nicks breath caught.
Dark hair, now cut a bit shorter, a faint scar on her chin, the familiar beauty mark. She stared at him, eyes wide with confusion.
Im sorry, she said softly. Youve got the wrong person. My name is Gwendolyn.
Gwendolyn? Nick whispered. I thought you were Poppy.
Im not Im not sure who I am, really, she replied, voice trembling. They told me Im Lucys mother.
Nick fell to his knees, heart pounding like a runaway train.
Poppy, its me, Nick. Were married. Eight years. We had a flat on Saffron Street. You worked at the library. We talked about having a kid.
Her expression flickered, a ghost of recognition, then hardened again.
Im not Im not Poppy. Im Gwendolyn. I I cant remember much before before the accident.
Lucy stepped in, eyes brimming.
Mother, are you okay?
No, Im not your mother, Im not Gwendolyn sobbed. Why are you all saying Im someone else?
Serge placed a gentle hand on Gwendolynns shoulder.
We found you unconscious by the North Bridge after a hitandrun. You had no ID, no memory. We took you in, gave you a name, a home. We thought we were doing the right thing.
We never meant to steal your life, Serge said quietly. Just gave you a place to live.
Nicks anger melted into bewilderment.
So you think Im crazy, that Im chasing a ghost?
No, Nick, Lucy said, holding his hand. Were sorry. We didnt know.
Look, Serge spoke, if she decides she wants to join you, we wont stop it. But shes scared, confused.
Gwendolyns eyes darted between them, tears slipping.
I cant I dont know who I am.
Nick sat beside her, his own grief softening.
Ill wait. Ill give you time. We can start over, if you want.
She gave a faint, hesitant smile.
Maybe Id like to know you again.
The rain stopped, and the streetlights glowed through the window. Nick felt a strange peace settle over him, as if a knot finally loosened.
He stood, thanked Serge and Lucy, and walked back to his cab. As he reached the curb, he glanced up once more at the thirdfloor window. The silhouette of Gwendolyn lingered, her hand raised in a small wave. He waved back, a silent promise hanging in the drizzlekissed air.
Tomorrow would be another shift, another route, another chance to rebuild something that had been torn apart. Hed call Constable Peters later, tell her the case could stay open a while longer. After all, sometimes the lost turn up where you least expectright in the back seat of a cab, on a rainy night, at a flat on the edge of town. He started the engine, the hum of the cab blending with the quiet rhythm of the city. The rearview mirror caught the faint glow of the third-floor window, still lit, still watching. He pulled away slowly, tires whispering over wet pavement, carrying the weight of a fragile hope. For the first time in eighteen months, the silence in the cab didnt feel like emptinessit felt like waiting, like breathing room. And as he turned onto the main road, headlights cutting through the night, he allowed himself to believe that some stories dont endthey just begin again.
