The taxi pulls up to the house and Nick Anderson freezes when he sees his missing wife in a thirdfloor window.
Its enough! How many times must we dig up the past? Nick throws the photograph onto the kitchen table, his voice shaking. Its been a year and a half, Molly. She wont come back.
Inspector Mary Parker gently lifts the picture, returns it to the file. Were closing the case, Mr. Anderson. By law enough time has passed to declare Molly Anderson missing.
You mean dead, Nick replies with a bitter smile.
I didnt say that, Mary says softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
Nick takes the pen, stares at the document for a few seconds, then signs with a sweeping stroke.
Is that all? Youll leave me alone now?
Mr. Anderson, Mary sighs, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we can.
I know, he says, rubbing his eyes. Sorry. Every time you come with that file, its the same nightmaresleeplessness, thoughts, memories
I understand, Mary nods. If you remember anything that could help, let us know.
For the past eighteen months Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nick says, shaking his head. Nothing. Just an ordinary morning, an ordinary breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she was gone, somewhere between home and work.
Mary gathers the papers and stands. In my experience, people have returned after three, five years.
Have you ever had a case where a wife simply left for someone else without a word? Nick asks sharply.
She pauses, then nods. Yes, but they usually leave a note.
When the inspectors door shuts, Nick sinks into his armchair and closes his eyes. Eighteen months have passed since Molly walked out and never returned. No call, no message. Her phone is dead, her bank cards untouched. Its as if she dissolved into the ground.
Hes tried everythingpolice reports, private investigators, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one has seen her, no one knows where she is.
The first months are the worst: endless interrogations (the husband is always the prime suspect), frantic searches, false hopes. Then numbness settles in, a dull ache in his chest, and a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? How did he miss it? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she be alive but unable to contact him? He forces himself not to think about it.
A phone rings, cutting through his gloom. The number belongs to the taxi dispatch.
Hello, Nick? the tired voice of dispatcher Tamara says. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Peters is in a hurry and were swamped with jobs.
Yes, of course, Nick says, pinching the bridge of his nose. What time?
Six oclock, first run to the airport.
Got it, Ill be there.
Nick began driving taxis three months after Mollys disappearance. He lost his engineering jobhis bosses finally gave up after endless sick leave and unpaid holidays. He can no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Steering a cab fits him better. Its mechanical work that needs attention but not intense concentration, and theres no personal attachmentpassengers come and go, conversations flicker, stories change. One day you ferry them, the next someone else takes the wheel. The only duty is to get from point A to point B.
His mornings start at five, a cold shower, a strong cup of tea. He looks at himself in the mirror: a gaunt face, grey at the temples, wrinkles that werent there a year and a half ago. Hes fortytwo, looks fifty.
The first passenger waits by the entrancea burly man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. All the way to the airport he babbles about a business trip to Birmingham, a motherinlaw who nags his wife, and a boss whos a tyrant. Nick nods, offers occasional agreement, while his mind drifts.
The day passes in a blur of stations, shopping centres, office blocks, more stations. By evening hes exhausted, but the dispatcher asks for one more job.
Nick, can you do a run from River Road to Greenfield Estate? Thats the last one today, the clients waiting.
Nick sighs, checks the address on his GPS.
The client turns out to be a young mother with a small boy, about three or four years old, who whines and refuses to get into the car.
Mike, please, the mother pleads. Well be home soon, Dads waiting.
No, I dont want to go home! the boy shouts. I want to visit Grandma!
Well see Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Right now we need to get home.
Nick waits patiently while they settle in. The ride is longtraffic snarls after an accident in the city centre, they sit in a jam for almost an hour. The boy eventually falls asleep on his mothers lap. She looks tired, sighs.
Sorry about the delay, she says, finally getting comfortable in the back seat. Its been a hard day.
No problem, Nick replies, checking his meter. Greenfield Estate, Lipton Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
The journey takes longer than expected; a minor crash forces them into a long queue. Rain begins to drizzle, puddles form on the road. Nick drives steadily, fighting a growing headache.
Greenfield Estate sits on the outskirtsa cluster of new flats, tall blocks that still feel empty. Nick rarely goes here; the anonymous concrete doesnt appeal to him.
Right turn here, the mother directs as they turn into the courtyard. Third entrance, please.
Nick obeys, stops at a plain seventeenstorey block.
Weve arrived, he says, turning off the engine. Thatll be £5.
She hands him a fivepound note. Keep the change, thanks for your patience.
Thank you, Nick smiles. May I help with the boy?
He steps out, opens the rear door, and the mother hands him the sleeping child. She pays, gathers her bags, and says, Ill take him, thank you.
Nick watches them disappear into the building. The rain has stopped, the night is chilly, and the child is still cradled in his mothers arms.
He stays by the car, waiting for them to get inside. Then he notices a light flickering in a thirdfloor window. A silhouette of a woman passes the curtains.
His heart skips. He recognizes the profile, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her earMollys habit.
He cant remember how he got out of the car, crossed the courtyard, or entered the building. He hears distant voices, feels eyes on him. All that matters is the third floor, a flat with a window facing this side.
The lift is out of order, so he rushes up the stairs, breathless, to the third floor. Four doors line the hallway. He recalls the layout: the second door on the left should be the right one. He stops, places a trembling hand on the buzzer. A long, tense pause. Footsteps. The lock clicks.
The door opens to reveal a man in his forties, dressed in casual trousers and a Tshirt.
What? he asks, bewildered.
Nick opens his mouth, but no words come. Im looking for my wife, Molly Anderson.
The mans expression shifts from confusion to suspicion. Theres no Molly Anderson here. You must have the wrong address.
He begins to close the door, but Nick grabs the handle.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not crazy, I swear. Shes my wife, missing for eighteen months.
The man hesitates, then the door swings wider. Behind him stands a woman, the very passenger Nick just dropped off, holding the sleepy boy.
Whats happening, Steve? the woman asks.
This man says hes looking for a woman named Molly, the man named Serge replies. He says he saw her in our flat.
The woman frowns, then her eyes widen. Wait youre the cab driver who brought us here?
I saw my wife in your window, Nick repeats, voice urgent. Molly Anderson, about your height, dark hair to her shoulders, a mole above her right eyebrow.
The couple exchange looks.
Theres no Molly, the man says. Only my wife, Emma, and our son, Tom.
My mother, Emma, the woman adds, lives with us now.
Can I at least see her? Nick begs, desperation evident. Just a minute. If its not her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
The man looks reluctant, but the woman places a hand on his shoulder.
Fine, let him look. We have nothing to lose.
They lead him to a small hallway, then down a corridor to a closed door.
Stay here, the man says. Ill warn her first.
He knocks, then pushes the door open without waiting for an answer. Inside, a modest bedroom with a neatly made bed, a dresser, and a chair by the window. A woman sits, staring out at the rain.
She turns, and Nicks breath catches.
Molly. She looks thinner, her hair cut short, a faint scar on her chin, green eyes, that familiar mole.
Molly, he whispers.
She blinks, confused. Im sorry, I think you have the wrong person. My name is Emma.
Her voice is gentle, but something in her tone feels off.
Molly, its me, Nick, he steps forward, kneeling beside the chair. Your husband.
She frowns, a flicker of unease crossing her face. Steve? Who is this?
The man steps forward, placing a hand on Nicks shoulder. Sir, youre causing a scene. My mother
Nick shakes his head. You know me. We met at the park concert, you dropped icecream on my shirt, I joked youd have to marry me to wash it off. You laughed. You love strawberry icecream, youre scared of heights.
She glances at the scar, then at the mole, as if a memory tries to surface, then fades.
Im not I dont remember you, Emma says. Im Emma Petrov, my sons mother.
Nick presses on. Your name is Molly Anderson. You have a mole above your right brow, a scar from a childhood bike fall, you work in the library, weve been married eight years, we have a flat on Garden Street, we were planning a child.
She touches her chin, examining the faint mark.
The woman, Emma, steps back. Youre mistaken, she says firmly. Weve taken care of a woman with amnesia for a year. She was found unconscious near the North Bridge after a crash. She had no ID, no memory. We gave her a home, a name, a family.
Nicks mind reels. I filed a missing person report the same day.
The man, Serge, sighs. Maybe the info never reached the police. We thought shed eventually remember.
The police tried to identify her, but no fingerprints, no documents, Emma adds. We thought she was a victim of amnesia.
Nicks voice cracks. Ive been searching, every day, for eighteen months.
Emmas eyes soften. We didnt take her away. We rescued her. Shes safe here.
Nick leans forward, pleading. Please, let me see her, even if its just for a minute. If she isnt my wife, Ill walk away.
After a tense pause, Serge nods. One minute. No touching.
He steps aside, letting Nick approach.
Emma rises, walks to the window, and looks out at the rain. The light from the street lamp flickers.
Nick reaches out, his hand hovering. Molly?
She turns, eyes meeting his. A spark of recognition flares, then dies. I I dont know you.
Nick feels the weight of years of grief, hope, and now this impossible situation.
He steps back, breathing heavily. Im sorry, he says. Ill leave.
Serge places a hand on Nicks shoulder. We wont stop you from seeing her again if you wish. She needs time.
Nick nods, the anger draining into weary acceptance. Ill wait. Ill give her time to remember.
Emma watches him go, a mixture of pity and relief on her face.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The sky clears, stars appear between the clouds. Nick lifts his head, inhaling the cool night air. He feels, at last, a breath of peace.
He climbs back into his cab, glances once at the thirdfloor window where a silhouette once stood, and waves a silent goodbye.
Tomorrow will be another daynew work, new routes, a new chance to rebuild his life with the woman he still believes is out there. He will call Inspector Mary Parker later, to let her know the case isnt truly closed.
Because sometimes, even after a year and a half, the lost can be found, if only by chance, by a taxi ride that ends at the right address.
