The cab pulled up in front of a modest terraced house, and Nick Anderson froze when he saw his missing wife reflected in the upstairs window.
Enough! How many times must we ransack the past? Nick hurled a photograph onto the kitchen table, his voice trembling. Its been a year and a half, Ellie. She wont come back.
Inspector Margaret Turner lifted the picture gently, slipped it back into the file. Were closing the case, Mr. Anderson. By law enough time has passed to declare Eleanor Clarke legally missing.
You meandead? Nicks bitter smile widened.
I didnt say that, Margaret replied softly. Its just paperwork now. Please sign here.
Nick took the pen, stared at the document for a heartbeat, then signed with a sweeping flourish.
Thats it? Youll leave me alone?
Mr. Anderson, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. Forgive me. Every time you come with that file, its the same nightmaresleeplessness, memories
I get it, the inspector nodded. But if anything surfaces, anything that could help
In this year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nick said, shaking his head. Nothing. Just an ordinary morning, a normal breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she was gone, between home and work.
Margaret gathered the papers and stood.
In my experience, people have turned up after three, even five years.
Have any of them just left you for someone else without a word? Nick snapped.
She was silent a moment, then answered: Yes. But they usually leave a note.
When the inspectors door shut, Nick sank into the armchair and closed his eyes. It had been eighteen months since Eleanor simply walked out and never returned. No call, no text. Her mobile was switched off, bank cards untouched. She seemed to have dissolved into the earth itself.
He had tried everythingpolice, private detectives, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew anything.
The first months were the worst: endless interrogations (of course, the husband is always the prime suspect), futile searches, fragile hope. Then came a numbness, 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 be alive but unable to reach out? He forced himself not to think about it.
The phone rang, cutting through his gloom. The dispatchers number flashed on the screen.
Hello, Nick? Tamaras weary voice came through. Can you start early tomorrow? Petrovs pressures up, and weve got bookings coming at you fast.
Yes, of course, Nick said, rubbing his bridge of the nose. What time?
Six if you can. First run to the airport.
Ill be there.
Nick had taken the taxi job three months after Eleanor vanished. Hed lost his engineering postmanagement was patient at first, but endless unpaid leave and sick days finally wore them out. He could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving, though, was just the right fit. A mechanical task that demanded attention but not deep concentration, with no emotional strings attachedfaces flicker by, conversations change, stories differ. One day you ferry a passenger, the next its someone else. Your only responsibility is getting from point A to point B.
His day began as usualup at five, a cold shower, a strong cup of tea. He stared at his reflection: a gaunt face, gray at the temples, lines that hadnt been there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, looking fifty.
The first fare waited at the curb: a stout man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. He talked nonstop about a trip to Manchester, a motherinlaw who nagged his wife, a boss who was a tyrant. Nick nodded, gave the occasional right, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
The day rolled ontrain stations, shopping centres, office parks, back to stations. By evening fatigue settled in, but the dispatcher sent one more job.
Nick, I need you for a run from River Road to Green Estate. Last one for today, the clients waiting.
Alright, Nick sighed, checking the address on his GPS.
The client turned out to be a young mother with a small boy, about three or four, who whined and refused to sit.
Oliver, please, she 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. Right now we need to get home.
Nick waited as they settled in. The ride promised to be long; the boy kept whining, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, the mother said once she finally sat down. Its been a hard day.
No problem, Nick replied, turning on the meter. Green Estate, Lipton Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled after an accident in the city centre; they sat in the jam for nearly an hour. Oliver eventually fell asleep on his mothers lap. She stared out the window, silent. Nick put on a soft tune, careful not to wake the boy.
When they finally cleared the jam, night had fallen. A light drizzle pelted the roads, creating shallow pools. Nick drove with steady focus, battling a growing headache.
Green Estate lay on the outskirtsnew build flats, tall brick blocks, still halfempty. Nick didnt like the featureless concrete, the lack of character.
Turn right here, the mother instructed as they entered the courtyard. Up to the third door, please.
Nick obeyed, stopping in front of a plain seventeenstorey block.
Thats it, he said, switching off the engine. Thatll be £5.
She handed him a fivepound note. No change needed, thank you.
Thank you, Nick smiled, offering to help with the child.
He opened the rear door, the mother handed over the sleeping boy, then slipped away. Nick cradled the child briefly while she paid and gathered her bags.
Ill take him, she said.
Are you sure? Maybe I should drop him at the flat?
No, no, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
She left, and Nick lingered, watching the rain drizzle on the pavement. He waited until the mother vanished into the buildings lobby. The street was damp, the air cold, and the boy slept peacefully on his mothers lap.
Nick turned the key, but as he looked up, a light flickered in a thirdfloor window. The silhouette of a woman was framed against the yellow glow.
His heart stuttered, then pounded wildly. He recognised the profile, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her earhed seen that countless times.
Eleanor.
He didnt remember how he left the car, how he crossed the courtyard, how he entered the stairwell. The world narrowed to that thirdfloor flat, the window, the light.
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 from the left. He pressed the buzzer, fingers shaking. A long, agonising pause, then footsteps. The lock clicked.
The door swung open to reveal a man in his forties, wearing pajama trousers and a Tshirt.
Yes? he asked, puzzled.
Nick opened his mouth, but no words came.
Who are you looking for? the man asked, frowning.
Im Nick swallowed. Im looking for a woman. Eleanor Clarke.
The mans expression shifted from surprise to guardedness.
Theres no Eleanor Clarke here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He began to shut the door, but Nick grabbed the handle.
Wait! I saw her, just now, in the window. Im not mad, I swear. Shes my wifeshe disappeared a year and a half ago.
The man hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood a woman, the very passenger Nick had just dropped off, cradling a sleepy boy.
Whats happening, Sam? she asked, eyes wide.
This man says he saw his wife in our window, the man, Sam, said. He looks like hes lost his mind.
The woman, Lucy, narrowed her eyes, then looked at Nick.
Youre the driver, right? What are you doing here?
I saw my wife, Eleanor, Nick repeated, voice hoarse. Shes about your height, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above her right brow.
Sam and Lucy exchanged a glance that made Nicks skin crawl.
Theres no Eleanor here, Sam repeated. Only me, Lucy, and my son.
And Galina? Nick asked, desperate.
Whos that? Lucy asked.
My mother, Nick said, confused. Shes supposed to be staying with us.
Sam shook his head.
No, we havent got anyone named Galina.
Let me see her? Nick pleaded, desperation raw. Just a minute. If its not her, Ill leave.
Lucy placed a gentle hand on Sams shoulder.
Sam, maybe we should let him have a look? What do we lose?
Sam muttered, Shes fragile, Lucy.
Please, Nick begged. Ive spent eighteen months not knowing if shes alive.
After a tense pause, Sam nodded reluctantly.
Fine. One minute. And if its not yours, you go.
They led Nick into a small hallway. Lucy took the boy to another room, while Sam motioned him toward a closed door.
Wait here, Sam said. Ill warn her first.
He knocked, entered without waiting for an answer, and shut the door behind him. From the other side, muffled voices drifted, indecipherable.
Finally, the door opened. Sam emerged, his face tight.
You may go in. Just dont upset her.
Nick stepped into a modest bedroom: a neatly made bed, a dresser, a few family photos on the walls. In a chair by the window sat a woman, looking out at the rain, her silhouette illuminated by the streetlamp.
She turned, and Nicks breath caught.
Eleanor. She was thinner, her hair cropped short, but the mole and the scar on her chin were unmistakable.
Eleanor, he whispered.
She stared at him, expression empty, voice calm.
Im sorry, youve got the wrong person. My name is Galina.
Her tone was gentle, but something in her eyes flickered.
Galina? Nick said, stepping closer. Its me, Nick. Your husband.
She frowned, confusion crossing her face.
Sam? she called out. Whos that?
Sam appeared at the doorway, his shoulders tense.
Its alright, mum. Hes just a visitor.
Visitor? GalinaEleanors voice trembled. I dont know you.
Nick fell to his knees beside the chair, his hand reaching for hers.
You know me, dont you? We met at a park concert, you spilled icecream on my shirt and I joked youd have to marry me to wash it out. You laughed.
For a heartbeat, a flash of recognition danced across her face, then faded.
Im not she whispered. Im Galina Petrov, Lucys mother.
Nick shook his head.
No. Your name is Eleanor Clarke. You have that mole, that scar, you hate heights, you love strawberry icecream, you cant stand the smell of chrysanthemums.
She touched the scar on her chin, as if testing it.
Lucy entered, the boy in her arms, eyes wide.
Whats happening? Mum?
He says Im his wife, Galina said, voice trembling. He calls me by another name.
Sam stepped forward, his grip firm on Nicks arm.
Hes right. We found you after a night on the outskirts of the city, near the North Bridge. You were unconscious, beaten, no memory of who you were.
Amnesia, right? Lucy said, her voice soft. Doctors said you might never remember.
We took you in, Sam added. My mum died a year ago, and we thought it was fate to give you a home.
Nicks anger surged, then cracked into something rawer.
I filed a missingperson report the day you took her, he said, voice cracking. Why didnt you tell me?
We tried, Sam replied, eyes downcast. No one could confirm who you were.
Silence settled, heavy as the rain outside.
Do you remember anything? Nick asked, his voice barely a whisper.
GalinaEleanors eyes flicked toward the window, the streetlights casting shadows.
The bridge snow a white car a man I was grabbed I screamed
Who? Nick leaned forward, desperate for a name.
She shivered, hands clasped over her mouth.
I dont know.
Lucy moved closer, wrapping an arm around her mothers shoulders.
Its okay, Mum. Youre safe now.
Nick stood, his mind a storm of grief and hope.
Im not asking you to leave, he said, voice steadier. I just want a chanceto know you again, to see if the woman I love is still in there.
Sam exhaled slowly.
Shell decide. We wont force anything.
Nick nodded, the weight of eighteen months of anguish finally loosening.
Thank you, he said, his throat raw. Ill wait.
He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. The rain had stopped; stars pierced the night sky. He inhaled the cool, damp air, feeling, for the first time in a long while, a breath of peace.
Eleanorwhether she remembered him or notwas alive. The mystery would untangle in time.
Back in his cab, Nick glanced once more at the glowing thirdfloor window. A silhouette stared back, a faint smile forming on her lips. He raised his hand in a silent farewell, and she seemed to wave in return.
Tomorrow would bring a new day, a new start, a chance to reclaim a love that had been lost for far too long.
First thing, hed call Inspector Margaret Turner and tell her the case wasnt ready to be closed. Because sometimes, even after a year and a half, the missing can be foundif only by a twist of fate and a simple ride to the right address.
