The cab pulled up to the front door and halted, the drivers breath catching as he saw his missing wife reflected in the window.
Enough! How many times must we stir the past? Colin flung the photograph onto the table, his voice trembling. A year and a half has gone, Emily. Shes not coming back.
Mr. Anderson, please understand, Inspector Mary Peterson lifted the picture gently, slipped it back into the file. Were closing the case. By law enough time has passed to declare Victoria Bennett missing.
You mean dead, Colin sneered bitterly.
I didnt say that, the inspector replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Sign here, please.
Colin took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping flourish.
Thats all? Youll leave me alone?
Colin Andrew, Mary sighed, I know how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, he said, his eyes heavy. Forgive me. Every time you bring that folder, it starts again sleepless nights, thoughts, memories
I understand, she nodded. But if anything else surfaces, anything that might help
In the past year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Colin shook his head. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. A normal morning, a normal breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she slipped away somewhere between home and work.
Mary gathered the papers, stood up.
In my experience people sometimes return after three, even five years.
And have you ever seen a wife just walk off to someone else without a word? Colin snapped.
She fell silent, then nodded.
Yes, but they usually leave a note.
When the inspectors door shut, Colin sank into his armchair and closed his eyes. A year and a half had passed since Victoria disappeared. She had simply walked out and never returnedno call, no message. Her phone was off, her cards untouched. It was as if she had dissolved into the earth.
He had tried everything the police, private detectives, adverts in the papers, posts online. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew anything.
The first months were the hardest: endless interrogations (of course the husband is always the prime suspect), frantic searches, fragile hope. Then numbness set in, a dull ache in his chest, and a flood of unanswered questions. Why? How could he have missed it? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she still be alive but unable to contact him? He tried not to think about it.
A phone ring snapped him out of the gloom. The display showed City Cabs.
Hello, Colin? the dispatchers voice sounded weary. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Peters is down with hypertension and weve got orders pouring in.
Yes, of course, Colin said, rubbing his nose. What time?
Six if you can. First run to the airport.
Got it.
Colin had taken up driving a taxi three months after Victoria vanished. Hed lost his engineering job his bosses were sympathetic, but endless unpaid leave finally wore them thin. He could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Steering a cab turned out to be perfect. Mechanical work that needed attention but not intense concentration. No attachments faces flicker past, conversations and stories change with each passenger. Today you ferry them, tomorrow someone else. No responsibility beyond getting from point A to point B.
Morning began as usual up at five, cold shower, strong tea. Colin caught his reflection in the mirror a gaunt face, a thin line of grey at the temples, wrinkles that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, but looking fifty.
The first client waited at the curba stout man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. He talked the whole way to Heathrow about a business trip to Manchester, a motherinlaw who torments his wife, a boss who rules with an iron fist. Colin nodded, gave the occasional right, but his mind drifted.
The day unfolded normally a train station, a shopping centre, an office block, back to the station. By evening fatigue settled in, but a dispatcher asked for one more job.
Colin, we need you from Riverbank to Greenfield Estate. Last one for today, passenger waiting.
Alright, he sighed, checking the address on the GPS.
The client turned out to be a young mother with a small boy, about three or four, who squirmed and refused to sit down.
Milo, please, his mother coaxed. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shouted. I want to see Grandma!
Well go to Grandma on Saturday, I promise. For now we need to get home.
Colin waited while they settled. The ride promised to be long the child whined, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she finally sat in the back. Its been a hard day.
No problem, Colin replied, flicking the meter. Greenfield Estate, Lime Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled after a minor accident in the city centre, leaving them stuck for almost an hour. The boy eventually dozed in his mothers arms. She stared out the window, silent. Colin turned on soft music, careful not to wake the child.
When they finally emerged from the jam, dusk had settled, a light drizzle fell, and puddles glistened on the road. Colin drove with a growing headache, focusing on the steering wheel.
Greenfield Estate lay on the outskirts rows of new flats, tall concrete blocks still fresh. Colin rarely visited such places; the anonymity of the brick towers felt cold.
Turn right here, the mother instructed as they entered a courtyard. Up to the third doorway, please.
Colin obeyed, stopped at a plain seventeenstorey block, no ornaments.
Weve arrived, he said, turning off the engine. Thatll be £4.20.
She handed him a £5 note.
Keep the change, thank you for your patience.
Thank you, Colin smiled. Let me help with the child.
He opened the rear door, the mother lifted the sleeping boy into his arms, then slipped away.
Ill take him, she said.
Are you sure? Should I drop him at the flat?
No, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
Colin handed the boy back; the child shifted but didnt wake. The mother thanked him again and headed to the entrance. Colin lingered, watching the rain, the street slick, the soft glow of a streetlamp.
He glanced up at the thirdfloor windows. One window flickered with a yellow light. A silhouette of a woman lingered in the frame, hair tucked behind an ear a gesture he recognized.
His heart jolted, then pounded wildly. He knew that profile, that habit he had seen it thousands of times.
Victoria. His Victoria, who had vanished a year and a half ago.
He couldnt 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, sensing eyes upon him. All that mattered was the third floor, the flat with the lit window.
The lift was out of service, so he scrambled up the stairs, breath ragged. At the third landing, four doors stood before him. He remembered the layout; counting from the left, the correct flat was the second. He pressed the buzzer with trembling fingers. A long, agonising pause, then footsteps. The lock clicked, the door swung open.
A man in a plain tee and housepants stood there, eyebrows knit.
Yes? he asked.
Colin opened his mouth, but words failed.
Who are you looking for? the man asked, a hint of suspicion.
Im Colin swallowed. Im searching for a woman. Victoria Clarke.
The mans expression shifted from surprise to wariness.
Theres no Victoria here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He began to close the door, but Colin placed a hand on the knob.
Wait! I saw her just now, in the window. Im not crazy, I swear. Shes my wife.
The man hesitated, then opened the door wider. Behind him stood a woman holding a sleepy childthe very passenger Colin had just dropped off.
What are you doing, Simon? she asked, eyeing the cab driver.
This man says hes looking for a Victoria, the man said. Claims she was in our window.
The womans eyes widened.
Colin? Youre the driver who brought us here?
I saw my wife, Colin insisted, voice shaking. Victoria Clarke. About your height, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above the right eyebrow.
The couple exchanged a glance; something in their faces made Colin uneasy.
Theres no Victoria here, the man repeated. Only me, my wife Lena, and our son.
And Gwendolen? the woman whispered, as if testing a memory.
Who? Colin asked, bewildered.
My mother, Lena said, touching her own cheek. Gwendolen Sinclair. Shes been living with us for a year after after an accident.
Can I speak with her? Colin pleaded, desperation raw.
The man shook his head.
Shes not well. It wouldnt help.
Lena placed a hand on Colins shoulder.
Lets at least let him look, Simon. Whats the harm?
Shes fragile, Simon warned. It could upset her.
Please, Colin begged. Ive been searching for a year and a half. Give me just a minute.
After a long, tense silence, Simon finally nodded.
One minute. If its not her, you leave.
They led him through a modest hallway to a small sitting room. Simon knocked on a closed door, entered without waiting for a response, and shut it behind him. From the other side, muffled voices drifted, indistinct.
Simon emerged, his face tight.
You may come in, but dont disturb her.
Colin stepped inside. A modest bedroom, neatly made, a nightstand with a few framed photos. By the window sat a woman in a cosy armchair, watching the rain. She turned as he entered, and his breath caught.
She was thinner, hair cropped short, a faint scar on her chin, but the mole above the right eyebrow was unmistakable. Green eyes met his.
Victoria? he whispered.
She stared, expression blank.
Im sorry, you have the wrong person, she said softly. My name is Gwendolen.
Her voice was familiar, yet alien.
Victoria, its me, Colin, your husband, he said, stepping closer, kneeling by the chair. Remember the park concert, the spilled icecream, the joke about marrying me to wash my shirts?
A flicker of something passed over her face, then vanished.
Simon? she asked, looking at the man standing in the doorway. Whos that?
Its me, your sons father, Simon said, his tone flat.
Mother? she asked, confusion rippling through her. Who are you?
Colin placed a hand on her shoulder.
Youre my wife. Youre Victoria Clarke. You used to love strawberry icecream, youre terrified of heights, you have that little scar from the bike fall when we were kids.
She touched her chin, feeling the scar.
I I dont remember, she whispered. I thought I was Gwendolen, Lenas mother.
Lena entered, the child now asleep in a pram.
Hes saying Im your daughter? she asked, bewildered.
No, Im saying youre my wife, Colin repeated. Ive been looking for you for a year and a half.
Simon, who had introduced himself as the husband, stepped forward.
We rescued her after she was found unconscious on the north bridge, bruised, with no ID. The hospital said shed lost her memory. We took her in; shes been living with us as Gwendolen.
Colins anger flared.
You stole my wife! You gave her a new name, a new life!
Simons jaw tightened.
We gave her shelter when no one else would.
Colins voice cracked.
Ive searched every day, every minute!
Gwendolens eyes softened a fraction.
I remember a flash a white car, a rough hand I tried to scream but no one heard.
She paused, tears forming.
I dont know who you are, but I feel something familiar.
Lena reached out, her hand trembling.
Maybe we should give her time, Colin. Shes confused, scared. She needs to rediscover who she is, whether shes Victoria or Gwendolen.
Simon nodded.
If she chooses to be with you, well step aside. If not, well stay.
Colin stared at the woman who was both his lost love and a stranger. He wanted to grab her, to drag her home, but he saw the fear in her eyes.
Ill wait, he said quietly. As long as it takes.
She managed a faint smile, the first hint of recognition in weeks.
Leaving the flat, Colin looked back at the glowing thirdfloor window. In that pane, a silhouette lingered, watching him depart. He raised his hand in a silent farewell; she seemed to wave back.
The rain ceased, the clouds thinned, and stars pierced the night. He breathed the damp air, feeling, for the first time in months, that he could fill his lungs fully.
She was alive. She had been found. The rest could be untangled later, with time.
He slipped back into his cab, glanced once more at the window, and drove toward home. Tomorrow he would call Inspector Mary, tell her the case isnt closed yet. Sometimes the lost are found after a year and a half, even if the path there is a bizarre, dreamlike detour through a strangers doorstep.
