June 20, 2025
Tonight the world seemed to tilt on its axis the moment a taxi pulled up outside my block and a silhouette appeared in the upstairs window.
Enough of this, I snapped, hurling a photograph of my missing wife onto the kitchen table. My voice trembled. Its been a year and a half, Emily. She wont come back.
Inspector Margaret Jones, the local constable, lifted the picture gently and slipped it back into her folder. Mr. Anderson, were closing the file. Legally enough time has passed to declare Victoria Clarke missing.
Missing as in dead? I managed a bitter grin.
Thats not what I said, 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 with a heavy hand.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?
Mr. Anderson, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Weve done everything we could.
I know, I said, rubbing my eyes tiredly. Forgive me. Every time you bring that file, the insomnia starts again, the thoughts, the memories
I get it, she nodded. But if anything does surface, anything that could help…
For the past eighteen months Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, I said, shaking my head. Nothing. Just an ordinary morning, a normal breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she was gone, somewhere between home and work.
Margaret gathered the papers and stood. In my experience, people sometimes return after three, five years.
And in yours, have you ever had a wife simply walk out to be with someone else without a word? I asked sharply.
She was silent a moment, then nodded. Yes, but they usually leave a note.
When the constable left, I sank into the armchair and closed my eyes. Its been a year and a half since Victoria stepped out of the house and never returned. No call, no text. Her phone was dead, her cards untouched. Its as if she dissolved into the earth.
I tried everythingpolice inquiries, private detectives, ads in The Times, posts on community boards. Nothing. No one saw her, no one knows where she went.
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 a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? Did I miss something? Was she unhappy? Did she find another? Did something terrible happen? Could she be alive but unable to contact me? I forced myself not to think about those possibilities.
A sudden ring jolted me from the gloom. The number displayed City Cabs.
Hello, Nicholas? the dispatchers voice sounded weary. Can you start tomorrow morning? Weve got a backlog and Mr. Peterson is down with a pressure issue.
Yes, of course, I said, tightening my nostrils. What time?
At six, first job to the airport.
Ill be there.
Three months after Victorias disappearance I returned to the cab trade. My engineering job was gonethe company had given me one leave after another until they finally let me go. I could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving a cab fit me better. Its manual work that demands attention but not deep concentration. No attachmentspassengers come and go, conversations flicker, stories change. One day you ferry a businessman, the next a schoolchild. Responsibility is simply getting someone from point A to point B.
My mornings now start at five: a cold shower, a strong cup of tea, a glance at my reflectiongrey at the temples, lines that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, yet I look fifty.
The first fare of the day was a portly gentleman with two suitcases, jittery and chatty. He rattled on about a trip to Edinburgh, his motherinlaw, and his bosss temper. I nodded, gave the occasional right, but my mind was elsewhere.
The day rolled on: the railway station, the shopping centre, the business park, back to the station. By evening fatigue weighed heavy, but the dispatcher asked for one more job.
Nick, take this. From Riverbank to Greenfield Estate. Last one tonight, passenger waiting.
I sighed, entered the address into the satnav.
The client turned out to be a young mother with a small boy, about three or four, who whined and refused to sit down.
Mike, please, she urged. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shrieked. I want to see Grandma!
Well go to Grandmas on Saturday, I promise. Now we need to get home.
I waited while they settled. The ride promised to be longtraffic snarled after an accident in the city centre, and we sat in a jam for nearly an hour. The child gradually quieted, eventually drifting off in his mothers arms. She stared out the window, exhausted. I turned on some soft music, careful not to wake him.
When we finally emerged from the gridlock, dusk had fallen, a light drizzle peppered the road, and puddles reflected the street lights. I drove carefully, a throbbing headache forming behind my eyes.
Greenfield Estate lay on the outskirtsnew flats, towering blocks, still halffilled. I never liked the anonymous concrete, but I followed the womans directions: turn right, then the third entrance on the left.
The building was a plain seventeenstorey block.
Here we are, I said, turning off the engine. £4.20, please.
She handed me a fivepound note. No change needed, thank you.
Thanks for your patience, I replied, offering to help with the child. I opened the rear door, and she placed the sleeping boy in my arms before stepping out herself.
Ill take him for a moment, she said.
No, thank you, I said, staying with the child. When she paid and turned toward the entrance, I lingered in the car, watching the rain coat the pavement.
She pushed through the heavy door, the boy cradled in her arms. I followed, the wind biting. The hallway was dim, the carpet damp. She fumbled with the lift buttonnothing. She gestured toward the stairs.
On the third floor, a window glowed softly. I caught a flash of a familiar profilehair tucked behind an ear, a small mole above the right eyebrow. My heart slammed against my ribs.
It was herVictoria. My wife, standing in the window, looking out at the rain.
I could not recall how I got out of the car, how I crossed the courtyard, how I entered the stairwell. It felt like a fog; I only heard distant murmurs, felt eyes on me. The only thing that mattered was the third floor, the flat with that particular window.
The lift was out of order, so I bolted up the stairs, skipping steps. At the landing I faced four doors. I remembered the layoutcounting from the left, the second door was the one. I pressed the bell, my hand shaking.
A long, tense pause, then footsteps. The lock clicked, the door swung open.
A man in his forties, in pajama pants and a tshirt, stood in the doorway.
Can I help you? he asked, puzzled.
I opened my mouth, but words failed me. Where is? I stammered.
Who are you looking for? he asked, frowning.
My wifeVictoria Clarke. I forced the name out.
His expression shifted from confusion to wariness. Theres no Victoria Clarke here.
He began to close the door, but I grabbed the knob.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Shes my wife. She disappeared a year and a half ago.
He hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood a womanshe was the passenger I had just dropped off, holding the sleeping boy.
Whats going on, Sergey? she said, addressing her husband.
This man says hes looking for a Victoria, the husband replied.
She narrowed her eyes, then widened as she recognized me. Hold on youre the taxi driver who brought us here?
I saw my wife in your window, I repeated, voice cracking. Victoria Clarke. Dark hair to the shoulder, mole above the right brow.
They exchanged a glance.
Theres no Victoria here, the man said firmly. Only me, my wife Lena, and our son.
My mother, Lenas mother, lives with us. Shes called Galina.
Galina? I asked, stepping forward. Can I see her?
He shook his head. Shes unwell. It wouldnt be right.
The woman placed a hand on my shoulder. Sergey, maybe we should let him look? What do we have to lose?
My mothers condition is fragile, Sergey muttered. I dont want to upset her.
Please, I pleaded, desperation in my tone. Ive been searching for her for eighteen months. Just one minute. If she isnt her, Ill leave.
After a long, awkward silence, Sergey gave a reluctant nod. Fine. One minute, then you go.
They led me down a hallway to a small sitting room. Lena took the child to another room while Sergey opened the bedroom door.
He knocked, then slipped inside without waiting for an answer. From behind the closed door I could hear muffled conversation, indecipherable.
When he finally emerged, his face was tight. You may enter. Please dont disturb her.
The room was modest: a neatly made bed, a dresser, a few framed photos on the wall. A chair by the window held a woman looking out at the drizzle. She turned slowly, and my breath caught.
It was herVictoria, though thinner, hair cropped short, a faint scar on her chin from a childhood bike fall, the same mole.
Victoria, I whispered.
She stared at me, expression blank, as if shed never seen me before. I think you have the wrong person, she said gently. My name is Galina.
Her voice sounded familiar, yet different.
Victoria, its me, Nick, I said, taking a step forward, my heart pounding. Your husband.
She frowned, confusion flickering across her face. Sergey? Whos that?
The man rushed in, placing a hand on her shoulder. Its alright, mum, its just a visitor.
What? I demanded, feeling the world tilt. Youre my wife! We married eight years ago. We lived on Garden Street, I work as an engineer, we were planning a child.
She shook her head, eyes wide. Im not Im Galina Petrovna. Im Lenas mother.
I tried to recall every detailher favorite strawberry ice cream, her fear of heights, the scar on her chin. You hate the smell of chrysanthemums, you love strawberry ice cream, youre terrified of ladders
She touched her chin, feeling the scar. Thats thats me, she said, voice trembling.
Lena entered the room, tears welling. Mum, whats happening?
The man, Sergey, put a firm hand on my shoulder. You need to leave, Nick.
I wont, I said, shaking. I need to know why shes here under another name, why you told me shes dead.
Sergey sighed. We found you unconscious on the north bridge after a car crash. You had no ID, no memory. The hospital said youd likely never remember who you were.
Lena nodded. We took you in. My mother died a year before you showed up, and we thought perhaps you were a sign.
The police never linked you to my missing wife, I whispered. I filed a report the same day.
Sergey looked away. They didnt have enough evidence. We kept you, gave you a name, a life, because we couldnt leave you on the street.
My anger boiled, then softened as I saw the fear in Galinas eyes. She was a stranger, yet a part of my past.
Im not asking you to give her back now, I said, voice low. Just give me a chance. Let her decide what she wants.
Sergey nodded slowly. Shell need time. Shes been living as our mother for a year and a half. We cant force her.
Lena clutched my hand. Well let her meet you again, if she wants.
I left the flat with a heavy heart, the rain now ceased, stars peeking through the clouds. The streetlights glimmered on the pavement as I walked back to my cab, the image of my wifes silhouette in that thirdfloor window burned into my mind.
Maybe fate nudged me there, or perhaps it was just a cruel coincidence. Either way, after eighteen months of searching, I finally found heralive, though lost in someone elses life. The rest can be sorted later, in time.
Ill call Inspector Margaret later and ask her to keep the case open. Sometimes the missing are found when you least expect it, even after a year and a half of hopelessness.
Tomorrow will be another shift, another route, but tonight I finally feel I can breathe again.
Nick.
