Taxi pulled up to the house and I froze when I saw my missing wife in the window.
Enough! How many times must we sift through the past? I threw the photograph onto the kitchen table, my voice trembling. Its been a year and a half, Emily. Shes not coming back.
Mr. Anderson, please hear me correctly, Inspector Mary Carter said gently, lifting the picture and slipping it back into the folder. Were closing the case. By law enough time has elapsed to declare Eleanor Anderson missing.
You mean dead, I managed a bitter laugh.
Thats not what I said, Mary replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
I took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping, careless stroke.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?
Mr. Nicholas Anderson, Mary sighed, I understand what youre feeling. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, I said, rubbing my eyes wearily. Forgive me. Every time you bring that folder, the whole thing starts againsleepless nights, endless thoughts, memories
I understand, she nodded. But if anything does surface that might help
For a year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, I said, shaking my head. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. 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 have returned after three, five years.
And in yours, have you ever seen a spouse simply walk out to someone else without a word? I asked sharply.
She fell silent, then nodded.
Yes. But they usually leave a note.
When the inspectors door shut, I sank into the armchair and closed my eyes. A year and a half had passed since Eleanor disappeared. She simply left the house and never came backno call, no text. Her phone was switched off, her cards lay untouched. It was as if she had dissolved into the earth.
Id tried everythingpolice, private detectives, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one saw her, no one knew.
The first months were the worst: endless interrogations (of course I was the prime suspect), frantic searches, fleeting hope. Then a numbness settled in, a dull ache in my chest, and a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? How did I not notice? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she be alive but unable to reach out? I forced myself not to think about it.
The phone rang, snapping me from the gloom. A dispatcher from London Taxi Co. displayed on the screen.
Hello, Nicholas? Tamaras voice was weary. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Peterson is down with a pressure issue, and were swamped with bookings.
Yes, of course, I said, rubbing my bridge of the nose. What time?
At six if you can. First job is the airport.
Got it, Ill be there.
I returned to driving three months after Eleanor vanished. Id lost my job as a civil engineermy boss had been patient, but the endless unpaid leave finally wore him out. I could no longer concentrate on calculations or blueprints.
Driving a cab, however, suited me. Its a mechanical job that demands attention but not deep concentration. No attachmentsfaces flash by, conversations drift, stories change. Today Im ferrying a passenger, tomorrow someone else. My only responsibility is to get from point A to point B.
My mornings now start at five, a cold shower, strong tea. I catch my reflection in the mirrorsagging skin, a silver stripe at my temples, lines that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, but I look fifty.
The first passenger waited at the curba stout man with two suitcases, jittery and chatty. He talked the whole way to Heathrow about a business trip to Leeds, a motherinlaw who hounds his wife, and a boss whos a tyrant. I nodded, gave the occasional right or I see, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
The day unfolded routinelytrain stations, shopping centre, office park, back to a station. By evening fatigue settled in, but I couldnt go home; dispatch asked for one more job.
Nick, I need you to go from River Street to Greenfield Estate. Thats the last one for today, the clients already waiting.
Alright, I sighed, checking the address on the GPS.
The client turned out to be a young woman with a small child. The boy was about three or four, whining and refusing to get into the car.
Tommy, please, his mother pleaded. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the child shouted. I want to visit Grandma!
Well see Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Right now we need to get home.
I waited patiently while they settled. The ride was going to be longTommy whined, his mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she finally sat in the back. Its been a hard day.
No problem, I replied, glancing at the meter. Greenfield Estate, Lipwood Road, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled due to an accident in the city centre; we sat in a jam for almost an hour. The boy eventually fell asleep on his mothers lap. She stared out the window, silent. I turned on some soft music, careful not to wake him.
When we finally cleared the congestion, dusk had fallen, rain was misting, and puddles glistened on the road. I drove carefully, a throbbing headache at the back of my skull.
Greenfield Estate lay on the outskirtsnew builds, towers of concrete that still felt empty. I didnt like these faceless blocks.
Turn right here, the woman instructed as we entered the estate, and take the third entrance, please.
I obeyed, stopped in front of a seventeenstorey block that was utterly unremarkable.
Here we are, I said, cutting the engine. £4.20, please.
She handed me a fivepound note.
No change needed. Thank you for your patience.
Thanks for the generosity, I smiled. May I help with the child?
She opened the rear door, handed me the sleeping Tommy, and slipped out. I cradled the boy while she paid and gathered her bags.
Ill take him to the flat, she said.
Are you sure? Maybe I should carry him inside?
No, weve got it. My husband will be home, hell help.
I placed Tommy back in the seat, watched her disappear up the stairs. The rain was still falling, the air damp and cold. I waited until the front door closed, then turned the key in the ignition.
Through the kitchen window on the third floor a light flickered. The woman and child stood at the doorway, but then the light dimmed. In the glow of the streetlamp a familiar silhouette appeared in a window. My heart skipped, then began pounding wildly. I knew that profile, that habit of tucking a strand of hair behind the ear. Id seen it a thousand times.
Emily. My wife. The woman who vanished a year and a half ago.
I didnt remember how I got out of the car, how I crossed the courtyard, how I entered the building. It was as if a fog lifted and someone elses voice whispered my name. The thirdfloor flat with its window was the one.
The lift was broken, so I sprinted up the stairs, breathless, reaching the landing. Four doors stood before me. I recalled the layoutcounting from the left, the second door was the one. I pressed the buzzer. A long, agonising pause, then footsteps. The lock clicked. The door swung open.
A man in his forties, dressed in pajamas, stood in the doorway.
Yes? he asked, puzzled.
I opened my mouth, but words failed.
Who are you looking for? he asked, frowning.
Im Im looking for Emily. Emily Clarke.
His eyes widened, then hardened.
Theres no Emily Clarke here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He reached for the door, but I grabbed the handle.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not crazy, I swear. Shes my wife.
The man hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood a womana passenger I had just dropped off, cradling a sleepy child.
Whats going on, Simon? she asked, looking at me.
This man says hes looking for an Emily, Simon said, his tone flat. He claims she was in our window.
The womans eyebrows rose, then widened further.
Youre the taxi driver who brought us here! she exclaimed. What are you doing here?
I saw my wife in your window, I repeated, voice hoarse. Emily Clarke. About fivefootnine, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above the right eyebrow.
Simon and his wife exchanged a glance.
Theres no Emily here, the woman, Lena, said slowly. Just me and my son.
I can talk to her, I demanded. Just a minute. If its not her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
Simon shook his head.
No, shes not well enough.
Lena placed a hand on Simons arm.
Simon, let him have a look. What have we got to lose?
Simon sighed, then nodded reluctantly.
They led me down a narrow hallway, past a living room, to a closed door.
Wait here, Simon said. Ill warn her first.
He knocked, didnt wait for an answer, and pushed the door open. I heard muffled voices from inside.
After a moment the door opened fully. A woman sat on a chair by the window, looking out at the rain. She turned, and my breath caught.
Emily. Slightly thinner, hair cut shorter, but undeniably her. A faint scar on her chin, a mole where I remembered.
Emily, I whispered.
She stared at me, expression blank.
Im sorry, she said softly. Youve got the wrong person. My name is Grace.
Her voice was familiar, yet different.
Emily, its me, Nick, I said, stepping closer, kneeling beside the chair. Your husband.
She frowned, confusion flickering across her features.
Simon? she asked, looking at the man. Whos this?
Simon moved to stand beside me.
This is its complicated, he said. We rescued her after a crash on the North Bridge. She had amnesia, no ID, no memory of who she was. We thought she was a stray and took her in. Shes been living with us as Grace, my mother.
I stared, mind reeling.
GraceEmily, I muttered. Youre my wife.
She shook her head, tears welling.
No, Im not. Im Grace. Im Lenas mother.
I tried to recall every detailour first meeting at the summer fete, the ice cream she dropped on my shirt, the joke about marriage. A flash of laughter, a hint of recognition, then nothing.
Your hairshort, the moleyes, thats right, I said, pointing. Youre terrified of heights, love strawberry icecream, cant stand the smell of chrysanthemums.
She touched her chin, feeling the scar.
Your husbandSimonwho is he? she asked.
Simon placed a hand on my shoulder.
We saved her, gave her a home, he said. If you want to leave, youre free to go.
Lena entered, now without her child, looking pale.
Whats happening? she demanded. Mum, are you okay?
GraceEmily looked between us, trembling.
Weve been living a lie for a year and a half, I whispered. You belong with me.
Simon shook his head.
I cant just take her away, he said. Shes… shes my mother now.
The room fell silent. I felt the weight of the past year and a half pressing down, the ache of lost time, the absurdity of the situation.
Finally, GraceEmily said, I dont remember you. I dont remember this life. But I do remember a feeling of safety when you held my hand.
I reached out, touching her hand gently.
Give us time, I pleaded. Let me get to know you again. Let us decide together.
Simon nodded slowly.
We wont force anything, he said. If she wants to go back, well help. If she wants to stay, well respect that.
EmilyGracelooked at me, a faint smile appearing.
I think Id like to try to remember you, she whispered.
Relief washed over me, a strange, bittersweet tide. I sat there, hand on her shoulder, feeling the damp air, the rain finally easing outside.
Tomorrow will be a new day. A fresh start, perhaps, with old love rediscovered. For now, I have to go home, call Inspector Carter, and tell her the case cant be closed just yet. A missing person can be found, even after a year and a half, even if the road to her is tangled with strangers and mistaken identities.
I climbed the stairs back to the cab, glanced once more at the lit window on the third floor. In that glow I saw Emilys silhouette watching me. I raised my hand in a silent farewell, and she seemed to wave back.
Tonight, Ill go back to my flat on Saffron Road, sit at my kitchen table, and write this down, hoping the words will keep me anchored while the world rearranges itself around a love that survived a storm.
Nicholas.
