The cab driver pulled up to the house and froze when he saw his missing wife reflected in a window.
Enough! I snapped, flinging the photograph onto the kitchen table. My voice trembled. Its been a year and a half, Emma. She wont come back.
Inspector Margaret Clarke, the local constable, gently lifted the picture, slipped it back into the folder. Mr. Anderson, were closing the case. By law enough time has passed to declare Eleanor Smith missing.
You mean dead, I managed a bitter laugh.
I didnt say that, she replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
I took the pen, stared at the form for a few seconds, then signed in one sweeping motion.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone?
Mr. Nicholas Anderson, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, I said, rubbing my eyes wearily. Sorry. Every time you bring that file, its the same nightmaresleeplessness, thoughts, memories
I get it, she nodded. But if anything comes back to you that could help
For a year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, I said, shaking my head. Nothing. Just a normal morning, a regular breakfast. See you tonight, love. And that was it. She slipped away somewhere between home and work.
Margaret gathered the papers and stood. In my experience, people have turned up after three, five years.
And have any of them turned up because their spouse simply walked out on them without a word? I snapped sharply.
She fell silent, then answered, Yes, but they usually leave a note.
When the officer closed the door behind her, I sank into the armchair and shut my eyes. A year and a half had passed since Eleanor walked out and never returned. No phone call, no text. Her mobile was dead, her bank cards unused. It was as if she had dissolved into the earth.
Id tried everythingpolice, private detectives, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one had seen her.
The first months were the worst. Endless interrogations (of course I was the prime suspect), frantic searches, false hopes. Then a numbness settled in, a dull ache in my chest, and endless questions with no answers.
Why? How could I have missed it? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she be alive but unable to contact me? I tried not to think about it.
A ringing phone jolted me from the gloom. The number displayed was the cab dispatch.
Hello, Nicholas? the weary voice of dispatcher Tamara answered. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Petersons blood pressure is off and were swamped with jobs.
Sure, I said, rubbing my nose. What time?
At six, if you can. First run to the airport.
Got it.
Three months after Eleanor vanished, I began driving a cab. Id lost my job as an engineermy bosses were sympathetic, but endless unpaid leave finally wore them out. I couldnt focus on calculations or drawings any longer.
Steering a wheel proved perfect. It required attention but not intense concentration. No attachmentsjust faces flashing by, conversations drifting in and out. One day youre ferrying a passenger, the next youre off to another. The only responsibility is to get people from point A to point B.
My mornings started the same: up at five, a cold shower, a strong cup of tea. I glanced at myself in the mirrorpale skin, a few grey hairs at the temples, wrinkles that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, looking nearer fifty.
The first client waited outside the blocka portly man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. He filled the whole ride talking about a business trip to Manchester, his motherinlaws nagging, his bosss quirks. I nodded and gave the occasional right but my mind was elsewhere.
The day rolled onairport, shopping centre, office park, back to the station. By evening fatigue set in, but the dispatcher asked for one more job.
Nick, can you do a run from Riverbank to Greenfield Estate? Last one for today, passenger waiting.
Alright, I sighed, checking the address on the GPS.
The client turned out to be a young mother with a little boy, about three or four, who whined and refused to get in.
Tommy, please, his mum coaxed. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shouted. I want Grandmas!
Well see Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Now lets get home.
I waited while they settled into the back. The ride was going to be a test of patience; the child whined, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said finally, after a sigh. Its been a hard day.
No problem, I replied, turning on the meter. Greenfield Estate, Hazel Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled due to an accident in the city centre, and we sat in a jam for nearly an hour. The boy calmed, eventually dozing on his mothers lap. She stared out the window, silent. I put on some soft music, careful not to wake him.
When we finally cleared the jam, dusk was falling, a light drizzle coating the roads with puddles. I drove steadily, trying to ignore a throbbing headache.
Greenfield Estate was on the outskirtsa new development of tall brick flats, still halffilled. I rarely came here; the impersonal blocks never appealed to me.
Right here, the woman said as we entered the courtyard. Third building, third flat, please.
I obeyed, stopped outside a seventeenstorey block that looked no different from any other.
Here we are, I said, turning off the engine. Thatll be £4.20.
She pulled out a £5 note. Keep the change. Thanks for your patience.
Thanks for the tip, I smiled. Do you need a hand with the child?
She handed me the sleeping boy, then got back to her bags.
Ill take him in, she said finally.
Are you sure? Maybe I should help you to the flat?
No, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
I placed the boy gently in the back seat, then stepped out, intending to leave. The rain was still falling, cold and wet, and the child slept peacefully. I lingered a moment, watching the mother struggle with the buildings latch.
Just as I was about to start the engine, a light glowed in a thirdfloor window. The mother and child stood at the doorway, but I could only see the windows yellow glow. In that light, a silhouette flickeredhair pulled back, a familiar tilt of the head.
My heart stopped, then pounded like a drum. I recognized that profile, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Id seen it a thousand times.
Eleanor. My missing wife.
I couldnt remember how Id stepped out of the car, crossed the courtyard, entered the building. The world felt hazy, voices distant, the only thing that mattered was the thirdfloor flat with the lit window.
The lift was out of order, so I sprinted up the stairs, breath ragged. On the third floor, four doors stared back at me. I remembered the layoutsecond door from the stairwell, the one with the righthand window. I knocked, hand shaking.
A long, tense pause. Then footsteps, a click of the lock, and the door opened.
A man in his forties, in houseslippers and a Tshirt, stood there, bewildered.
Can I help you? he asked.
I opened my mouth, but words failed. I
What do you want? the man demanded.
Im looking for a woman. Eleanor Clarke.
His face shifted from anger to caution. Theres no Eleanor Clarke here. Youve got the wrong address.
He tried to close the door, but I grasped the knob.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not mad. Im her husband. She disappeared a year and a half ago.
The man hesitated, then the door swung wider. Behind him stood a womanexactly the passenger Id just dropped off, cradling a sleepy child.
Whats happening, Simon? she asked, her voice tight.
This man says hes looking for a woman named Eleanor, Simon answered, eyes flicking between us.
The woman frowned, then widened her eyes. Youre the cab driver who brought us here, right? What are you doing?
I saw my wife in your window, I repeated, voice hoarse. Eleanor Clarke. Shes about your height, dark hair to her shoulders, a mole above her right eyebrow.
Simon and the woman exchanged looks that made my stomach twist.
Theres no Eleanor here, the woman said, her tone weary. Im Lucy, my mothers name is Margaret.
I need to see her, I pleaded. Just a minute. If its not her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
Simon shook his head. Shes not well, and it would mess her up.
Lucy placed a hand on Simons shoulder. Simon, let him have a look. What do we lose?
Simon sighed, Alright, but only for a minute. And if she isnt yours, you go.
They led me down a narrow hallway, past the living room, to a closed door.
Wait here, Simon said. Ill tell her first.
He knocked, entered without waiting for an answer, and shut the door. From behind it came muffled voices, indistinct.
After a moment, Simon emerged, his face tense. You can go in. Dont upset her.
I stepped into a modest bedroom. A simple bed, a dresser, a few family photos. By the window sat a woman in a chair, watching the rain. She turned, and my breath caught.
Eleanor. A little thinner, hair cropped short, a faint scar on her chin from a childhood bike fall, the familiar mole.
Eleanor, I whispered.
She stared, expression blank. Im sorry, youve got the wrong person. My name is Margaret.
Her voice was hers, but the tone felt foreign.
Eleanor, its me, Nick, I said, moving toward her, kneeling beside the chair. Your husband.
She frowned, confusion flickering across her face. Simon? Whos that?
Simon, standing nearby, placed a hand on my shoulder. Everythings fine, mate. Shes my mothers friend.
Im not a stranger, I whispered. We married eight years ago, lived on Rose Street, I worked as an engineer, we dreamed of a child.
She looked at me, a flash of something behind her eyes, then shook her head. Im Margaret. I dont know you.
I listed detailsher mole, the scar, her fear of heights, her love of strawberry icecream, her hatred of chrysanthemums. She touched her chin, as if feeling the scar.
Lucy entered, the child now cradled in her arms. Whats happening? she asked, panic in her voice.
This man is claiming Im his wife, Margaret said, and hes calling me by another name.
Simon interjected, We saved her after she was found on the Thames embankment, unconscious. She had amnesia. We gave her a home.
Exactly, I said, I filed a missingperson report the same day.
Simon shrugged. Maybe the report didnt reach us.
Lucys eyes filled with tears. We love her. Shes our mum now.
I stood, heart pounding. You cant just take her away. She belongs with me.
Simon, firm, said, Shes safe here. She can decide.
The room fell silent. Margarets gaze shifted between us, fear and something like recognition sparking.
I I dont remember, she whispered. I dont recall any of this.
Lucy knelt, hugging the child. Maybe she needs time to adjust. Shes been living here for a year now, thinking shes my mother.
I swallowed, anger mixing with desperation. Ive spent a year and a half looking for her. I cant just force her back.
Simon nodded. Give her space. Let her get to know us again, if she wants.
I sighed, the fight draining from me. Alright. Ill wait. Ill be here when shes ready.
MargaretEleanoroffered a faint smile. I think Id like to know you.
The air lightened just a fraction. I felt a tear slip down my cheek.
Leaving the flat, I paused at the thirdfloor window, watching the faint outline of the woman inside. She lifted a hand, and I raised mine in response.
Tomorrow would be another day. A new beginning. A chance to rediscover a love that had been lost for so long.
First thing, Id call Inspector Clarke and tell her not to close the case yet. Sometimes, even after a year and a half, the lost can be foundif you happen to drive a cab to the right address at the right moment.
