The cab driver pulled up to the house and froze when he saw his missing wife standing in a window.
Enough! Nicholas shouted, flinging a photograph onto the kitchen table. His voice trembled. Its been a year and a half, Emma. She wont come back.
Detective Inspector Margaret Lewis gently lifted the picture, slipped it back into the file. Were closing the case, Mr. Andrews. Legally enough time has passed to declare Ethel Sergeant missing.
You mean dead, Nicholas sneered bitterly.
I didnt say that, Margaret replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
Nicholas took the pen, stared at the report for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping flourish.
Now are we finished? Will you leave me alone?
Mr. Andrews, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. We have done everything we can.
I know, he whispered, his eyes heavy. Forgive me. Every time you come with that file, it drags up the sleepless nights, the thoughts, the memories
I understand, the inspector nodded. But if anything comes to mind that could help
For a year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nicholas said, 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.
Margaret gathered the papers and stood. In my experience, people sometimes return after three or five years.
And in yours, have you ever had a wife just walk away without a word? Nicholas snapped.
She was silent a moment, then nodded. Yes. But they usually leave a note.
When the inspector closed the door, Nicholas sank into a chair and shut his eyes. A year and a half had passed since Ethel disappeared. She simply left the house and never returnedno call, no message. Her phone was switched off, her bank cards untouched. It was as if she had slipped through the ground.
He had tried everythingpolice reports, private investigators, newspaper notices, online posts. Nothing. No one saw her, no one knew anything.
The first months were the worst. Endless interrogations (of course the husband was always the prime suspect), frantic searches, fleeting hope. Then numbness set in, a dull ache in his chest, and a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? How had he missed it? Was she unhappy? Did she find someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she still be alive but unable to contact him? He tried not to think about those possibilities.
A sudden ring tore him from his gloom. The caller ID showed the local cab firm.
Hello, Nicholas? the dispatcher, Tamara, sounded weary. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Peters is on medication and weve got a backlog of bookings.
Yes, of course, Nicholas said, rubbing his nose. What time?
At six if you can. First run to Heathrow.
Alright, Ill be there.
Nicholas had taken up cab work three months after Ethel vanished. Hed lost his engineering job; his employers were sympathetic, but the endless sick days and unpaid leave finally wore out their patience. He could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving a cab suited him. It was manual work that required attention but not deep concentration. No lasting attachmentspassengers came and went, their stories flickered like streetlights. One day you ferry someone to the airport, the next youre dropping a family at a school. The only responsibility is to get from point A to point B.
His mornings began the same: up at five, a cold shower, strong tea. He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirrora gaunt face, a thin line of grey at his temples, wrinkles that hadnt been there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, feeling fifty.
The first fare waited at the entrancea portly man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. All the way to Heathrow he rattled on about a business trip to Manchester, a motherinlaw who constantly nagged, and a boss who was a tyrant. Nicholas nodded and smiled, but his mind drifted.
The day passed in the usual rhythmtrain stations, shopping centres, office blocks, another station. By evening fatigue settled in, but the dispatcher sent another job.
Colin, we need you from Riverside to Greenfield Estate. Last one for tonight, the clients waiting.
Alright, Nicholas sighed, checking the address.
The client turned out to be a young mother with a small child, a boy of three or four who stubbornly refused to sit in the back.
Mike, please, she coaxed. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shouted. I want to go to Grandmas!
Well visit Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Now lets get home.
Nicholas waited patiently as they climbed in. The ride promised to be long; the child whined, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, the woman said once she finally settled into the rear seat. Its been a hard day.
No problem, Nicholas replied, flicking the meter. Greenfield Estate, Larch Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled after an accident near the city centre; they sat in a jam for almost an hour. The boy gradually calmed, eventually dozing in his mothers arms. She stared out the window, silent. Nicholas turned on soft music, careful not to wake the child.
When they finally cleared the jam, dusk had fallen, a light drizzle began, and puddles mirrored the streetlights. Nicholas drove steadily, fighting a growing headache.
Greenfield Estate lay on the outskirtsnew housing blocks, tall flats still half empty. Nicholas rarely ventured here; the anonymous concrete blocks felt soulless.
Turn right here, the woman instructed as they entered a courtyard. And to the third door, please.
Nicholas obeyed, stopped in front of a nondescript seventeenstorey block.
Here we are, he said, turning off the engine. Thatll be four hundred and twenty pounds.
The woman produced a fivehundredpound note. No change needed, thank you for your patience.
Thanks for the tip, Nicholas smiled. Let me help with the boy.
He opened the rear door, the mother handed him the sleeping child, then stepped out herself. Nicholas cradled the boy gently while she paid and gathered her bags.
Ill take him, she said.
Are you sure? Should we drop him at the flat?
No, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
She thanked him again and headed toward the building. Nicholas watched her disappear up the steps, rain still falling, the boy still asleep.
He waited a moment, then turned the key in the ignition. As he looked up at the windows, a light glowed on the third floor. The woman and child stood at the doorway, but the figure in the window caught his breath.
It was her silhouette, framed by the yellow glowher profile, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
His heart hammered. He knew that gesture. He knew the shape; he had seen it countless times in his mind.
Ethel.
He couldnt remember how hed left the cab, crossed the courtyard, entered the building. He heard muffled voices, felt eyes on him. All that mattered was the third floor, the flat with windows facing this side.
The lift was out of order. He sprinted up the stairs, breath ragged, reaching the third floor. Four doors stood before him. He recalled the layoutsecond door on the left from the landing. He leaned in, listening to the silence that seemed deafening.
His trembling hand pressed the bell. A long, tense pause, then footsteps. The lock clicked, the door swung open.
A man in his forties, in domestic pyjamas, stood in the doorway.
What? he asked, bewildered.
Nicholas opened his mouth but no words came.
Who are you looking for? the man asked, frowning.
Im Im looking for my wife, Ethel Andrews.
The mans face shifted from surprise to caution.
Theres no Ethel here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He reached for the door, but Nicholas held it ajar.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not mad, I swearIm her husband. She vanished a year and a half ago.
The man hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood a woman with a small child, the very passenger Nicholas had just dropped off. She clutched the sleeping boy.
Whats happening, Simon? she asked.
This man says he saw his wife in our window, Simon replied.
The womans eyes widened.
Youre the cab driver who took us here earlier, arent you? she said.
Yes, Nicholas said, voice steady. Ethel Andrews. About shoulderheight, dark hair to the ears, a mole above the right brow.
The couple exchanged glances. Something in their stare made Nicholas pause.
Theres no Ethel here, Simon said again. Only me, Lena, and our son, Harry.
My mother, Margaret, the woman added quietly. Shes been staying with us for the past year.
May I see her? Nicholas asked, desperation edging his tone.
Simon shook his head. Shes not well. And why would we let a stranger in?
Lena placed a hand on Simons shoulder. Simon, let him have a look. What have we got to lose?
Simon bit his lip, then sighed. Fine. One minute. If shes not her, you leave.
They led him into a modest hallway. Lena took Harry to another room while Simon guided Nicholas toward a closed door.
Stay here, Simon said. Ill warn her first.
He knocked, entered without waiting for an answer, and shut the door behind him. From the other side muffled sounds drifted, but no words could be made out.
Finally the door opened. A woman sat on a chair by the window, looking out at the rain. She turned slowly.
Ethel. She was thinner, hair cut short, but the mole and the scar on her chin were unmistakable.
Ethel, Nicholas breathed.
She stared at him, expression blank, as if he were a stranger.
Im sorry, she said gently. Youve got the wrong person. My name is Margaret.
Her voice was familiar, yet alien.
Its me, Colin, he said, stepping forward. Your husband.
She frowned, confusion flashing across her face.
Simon? she asked, glancing at the man behind her. Whos this?
Simon moved forward, hand on her shoulder. Everythings fine, love. Hes a friend of Lenas.
Im not I dont remember you, Margaret said, shaking her head. Im Lenas mother.
Nicholas recited detailsshe feared heights, loved strawberry ice cream, couldnt stand the smell of chrysanthemums, the scar from a childhood bike fall.
She raised a hand to the scar, as if checking it.
Lena entered, the child in her arms, eyes wide. Whats happening? she whispered.
The man says hes looking for his wife, Margaret said, voice trembling. He calls her Vera.
Dont come any closer, Simon warned. Shes not well.
Nicholas ignored the warning, dropping to his knees beside the chair. Do you remember us? The night we met at the park, you spilled ice cream on my shirt and I said youd have to marry me to wash it out?
A flicker of something crossed her face, then vanished.
No, she said firmly. Im Margaret Peters. Im Lenas mother.
Nicholas shook his head. Youre Ethel Andrews. The mole, the scar, the fear of heights, the love of strawberry ice cream
She touched the mole, then the scar, eyes widening.
Lena rushed forward. Mom, whats happening?
I I think I might be remembering, Margaret whispered. But its all a blur.
Simon stepped back, his expression softening. A year and a half ago, Lenas friend found a woman on the North Bridge, unconscious and beaten. She woke up in the hospital with no memory of who she was. No ID, no fingerprints. The police could identify her, so they placed her in a care home. When we heard about a missing woman named Ethel, we thoughtmaybe shes the one. We took her in, gave her our name, tried to make a life for her.
Nicholas felt a wave of anger and relief. You gave her my wife a new name, a new life, while Ive been tearing myself apart.
It wasnt our intention to steal her, Margaret said, tears spilling. We only wanted to help someone who had nowhere to go. We thought shed never be found.
Ive been searching every day, Nicholas said, voice cracking. Ive been waiting for a sign.
The room fell silent. Margaret looked at Nicholas, then at her son, then back.
Maybe maybe I need time, she whispered. To figure out who I am, what I remember.
Simon nodded. We wont force anything. If you want to be with your husband, well support you. If you want to stay with us, thats fine too.
Nicholas swallowed his fury. I just want her to choose, whatever that choice is.
Lena cradled Harry, looking between the two men. Weve loved her for a year now. We cant pretend this isnt painful for anyone.
The conversation stretched into the night. They agreed to give MargaretEthela period to reacquaint herself with both families, to decide where she truly belonged.
When Nicholas finally left the flat, he paused on the stairs, looking back at the dimly lit window on the third floor. A silhouette lingered, watching him. He raised his hand in a silent farewell, and it seemed she answered with a faint wave.
The rain had stopped, and stars pierced the night sky above London. He inhaled the cool, damp air and felt, for the first time in eighteen months, a breath of hope.
He climbed into his cab, glanced once more at the glowing window, and drove away. Tomorrow would bring a new day, a fresh start, and perhaps a second chance with a love once thought lost. He would call Detective Inspector Margaret again, not to close the case, but to keep the doors open. Because sometimes the missing are found when you least expect it even if it takes a year and a half and a cab ride to the very house where a light flickers on the third floor.
