The cab driver pulls up to the front door and freezes, spotting his missing wife in the upstairs window.
Stop it! How many times must we dig up the past? Nick Anderson hurls a photograph onto the kitchen table, his voice trembling. Its been a year and a half, Emma. She wont come back.
Nick, hear me right, Inspector Mary Parker, the local constable, lifts the picture delicately and slips it back into the file. Were closing the case. By law enough time has passed to declare Eleanor Clarke legally missing.
You mean dead, Nick says with a bitter grin.
I didnt say that, Mary replies gently. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
Nick takes the pen, stares at the document for a few seconds, then signs in a sweeping motion.
Thats it? Youll leave me alone now?
Mr. Anderson, Mary sighs, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we can.
I know, he says, rubbing his eyes wearily. Forgive me. Every time you come with that folder, the nightmare starts again sleeplessness, thoughts, memories
I get it, the officer nods. But if anything jogs your memory, anything that could help
In the past year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nick shakes his head. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. A normal morning, a normal breakfast. See you tonight, love. And that was it. She slipped away somewhere between home and work.
Mary gathers the papers and stands.
Ive seen cases where people turn up after three, even five years, she says.
And have you ever seen a case where a wife just walks out with another man without a word? Nick snaps.
She stays silent a moment, then nods.
Yes. But they usually leave a note.
When the constable closes the door, Nick sinks into the armchair and shuts his eyes. A year and a half has passed since Eleanor disappeared. She simply walked out and never returned. No call, no message. Her phone is off, her bank cards unused. Its as if she dissolved into the ground.
He has tried everything the police, private detectives, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one saw her, no one knows.
The first months were the worst. Endless interrogations (of course, the husband is always the prime suspect), frantic searches, clinging to hope. Then numbness set in, followed by a dull, throbbing pain in his chest and a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? How did he miss it? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she be alive but unable to contact him? He refuses to think about it.
A phone rings, pulling Nick out of his gloom. The display shows the taxi companys number.
Hello, Nick? the weary voice of dispatcher Tamara sounds. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Peters is in a pressure slump and weve got orders galore.
Sure, Nick rubs his bridge of the nose. What time?
Six if you can. First job to the airport.
Got it. Ill be there.
Nick has been driving a cab for three months since Eleanor vanished. He lost his primary job as an engineer his employer tried to accommodate him, but endless unpaid leave finally wore them out. He cant focus on designs or calculations any longer.
Driving a car fits him perfectly now. Its manual work, needs attention but not intense concentration, and there are no attachments passengers come and go, conversations flicker, stories change. Today you ferry a client, tomorrow someone else. No responsibility beyond getting people from point A to point B.
Morning begins as usual up at five, cold shower, strong coffee. Nick glances at his reflection: a gaunt face, a streak of grey at the temples, wrinkles that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, but he looks fifty.
His first passenger waits outside the block a stout man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. On the way to Heathrow he rattles off about a business trip to Brighton, his motherinlaws nagging, and his bosss impossible demands. Nick nods, gives the occasional right, but his mind drifts.
The day rolls on the station, the shopping centre, the office park, back to the station. By evening fatigue sets in, but the dispatcher asks for one more job.
Nick, we need you from Riverbank to Green Estate. Last one today, the clients waiting.
Alright, he sighs, checking the address on his GPS.
The client turns out to be a young mother with a small boy, about three or four, who whines and refuses to get into the car.
Milo, please, the mother pleads. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the child shrieks. I want to see Grandma!
Well visit Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Right now we need to get home.
Nick waits patiently as they settle. The ride proves tiring the child whines, the mother looks exhausted.
Sorry, she says once she finally sits down in the back. Its been a hard day.
No problem, Nick replies, turning on the meter. Green Estate, Larch Street, number 17, right?
Thats right.
Traffic snarls after an accident in the city centre, holding them up for nearly an hour. Milo gradually calms, eventually falling asleep on his mothers lap. She stares out the window, silent. Nick puts on soft music, careful not to wake the boy.
When they finally clear the jam, its dark and a light drizzle falls, forming puddles on the road. Nick concentrates on the wheel, fighting a growing headache.
Green Estate sits on the outskirts new builds, tall blocks, still halfempty. Nick rarely goes here; the anonymous concrete towers feel soulless.
Turn right here, the mother instructs as they enter a courtyard. Up to the third entrance, please.
Nick obeys, stops at a plain seventeenstorey block.
Weve arrived, he says, turning off the engine. Thatll be £4.20.
She produces a £5 note.
No change needed, thanks for your patience.
Thank you, Nick smiles. Let me help with the little one.
He steps out, opens the rear door, and the mother hands him the sleeping boy before climbing out herself. He cradles Milo while she pays and gathers her bags.
Ill take him, she says.
Are you sure? Should I drop him at the flat?
No, no, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
Nick places the child back in the car, ready to leave, but the rain makes him linger until theyre inside. He watches the mother struggle with the heavy door, then presses the start button on his taxi, and his eyes drift to the windows of the building.
On the third floor a light glows. The mother and child stand at the entrance, but Nick cant see them clearly. In that yellow glow a female silhouette flickers.
His heart skips, then races. He knows the profile, the tilt of the hair behind the ear hes seen it a thousand times.
Eleanor.
He cant recall how he left the car, crossed the courtyard, entered the block. He feels voices, sees strangers glances, but everything narrows to that thirdfloor window, the soft yellow light.
The lift is out of order. He darts up the stairs, breath ragged, reaches the third floor, faces four doors. Which one? He remembers the window layout: counting from the left, its the second door. He steps closer, listens. Silence. His pulse thunders.
He presses the buzzer with a shaking finger. A long, tense pause. Then footsteps. The lock clicks. The door opens.
A man around forty, in trousers and a Tshirt, stands in the doorway.
Yes? he asks, puzzled.
Nick opens his mouth, but words stick.
Who are you? the man demands.
I Nick swallows. Im looking for a woman. Eleanor. Eleanor Clarke.
The mans expression flickers from surprise to wariness.
Theres no Eleanor here, he says. Youve got the wrong address.
He starts to shut the door, but Nick grabs the handle.
Wait! I saw her just now in the window. Im not crazy. Shes my wife, missing for a year and a half.
The man hesitates, then the door swings wider. Behind him stands a woman the very passenger Nick just delivered holding a sleepy child.
Whats going on, Steven? she asks.
This man says he saw his wife in our window, the man Simon replies. He insists its Eleanor.
The woman narrows her eyes, then looks at Nick.
Youre the cab driver who brought us here! What are you doing?
I saw my wife in your window, Nick repeats stubbornly. Eleanor Clarke. About fivefootnine, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole over the right eyebrow.
The couple exchange a wary glance.
We dont have any Eleanor, Simon says. Its just me, my wife Linda, and our son.
And your mother, Nick adds, puzzled.
My mother? Linda asks. Who?
My mother, Nick says, voice cracking. Shes been living with us for the past year.
May I speak to her? Nick pleads, desperation clear.
Simon shakes his head.
Shes ill, and it would only upset her.
Linda places a hand on Simons shoulder.
Let him at least look, Simon. What do we have to lose?
Simon sighs, reluctantly nodding.
Fine. One minute. If its not you, you leave.
They lead Nick to a small hallway. Linda carries the child to a room, while Simon gestures for Nick to follow. They pass the living room, stop before a closed door.
Ill warn her first, Simon says, then knocks. He doesnt wait for an answer, pushes the door open, and shuts it behind him.
From the other side muffled voices drift, indecipherable.
Soon the door opens. Simon steps out, looking strained.
You can go in. Please, dont disturb her.
Nick steps into a modest bedroom: a neatly made bed, a dresser, a few framed photos on the wall. By the window sits a woman in a comfortable chair, watching the rain. She turns slowly, and Nicks breath catches.
Its Eleanor thinner, hair cut shorter, but unmistakable. The mole sits where he remembers, a tiny scar on her chin from a childhood bike fall, green eyes that mirror his own.
Eleanor, he whispers.
She blinks, confusion clouding her face.
Im sorry, youve got the wrong person. My name is Margaret.
Her voice is familiar yet foreign.
Eleanor, its me, Nick, he steps forward. Your husband.
She frowns, a flicker of recognition sparking then fading.
Steven? she asks. Whos that?
Simon appears behind her, calm.
All right, lets calm down, Margaret. This is a misunderstanding.
Nicks heart hammers.
Margaret, Im Nick Anderson. We were married eight years, had a flat on Garden Street, I work as an engineer, we dreamed of a child.
She looks at him, bewildered.
I I dont remember any of that, she says softly. I think Im Lindas mother.
Nick repeats details: the mole, the scar, the fear of heights, the love of strawberry icecream, the aversion to chrysanthemums. She touches her chin, feeling the scar.
Linda returns, the child now in her arms, and says,
Whats happening? Mother, are you okay?
Hes calling me by the wrong name, Margaret says, irritated. Who are you?
Simon grabs Nicks shoulder.
You should leave, he warns. Youre upsetting my motherinlaw.
Nick shakes his head, refusing to be pushed away.
No, I need answers. Why is my wife living here under a different name? Why does she call you soninlaw? What have you done to her?
We didnt do anything, Simon says, weary. She was found unconscious on the Thames embankment one March night, beaten, with no ID. She woke up in hospital with amnesia. No one could identify her.
I filed a missing persons report the same day, Nick interjects.
Apparently the info never got through, Simon shrugs. No documents, no fingerprints. She was almost sent to a homeless shelter after discharge.
Thats when we took her in, Linda explains. My mother, Margaret, had died a year earlier. We thought it was a sign, a chance to give someone a home.
Youve taken my wife, Nicks voice cracks. Gave her a new name, a new life!
We gave her a roof and a family, Simon says. When no one else would.
Ive been searching every day, Nick shouts. Every minute!
Margaret suddenly rises, pale, hands shaking.
The bridge the cold snow she murmurs.
Everyone falls silent, waiting.
Mom? Linda asks gently.
The car a white car a man scary Margaret whispers, eyes unfocused.
Nick leans forward.
What happened after you got home that night?
She looks through him, a brief flash of recognition.
He grabbed me, put me in a car. I screamed, but no one helped.
Who? Nick asks.
She shakes her head, tears forming.
I cant remember. I dont want to.
Linda comforts her, pulling her close.
You dont have to talk if you dont want to, Mom. Youre safe now.
But am I really your mother? Margaret asks Nick. Is this my life?
Yes, Nick says softly. Were married, we have a flat, I work in engineering, we wanted a baby.
A spark of recognition flashes in Margarets eyes, then dims.
I she reaches out, touching his cheek. I dont remember you, but something feels familiar.
Nick places his hand over hers.
Youll remember, in time. Ill help you.
He turns to Simon and Linda.
Thank you for rescuing her, for caring for her. Shes my wife, and I want her back.
Linda weeps, hugging her son.
We loved her, Simon says quietly. She became part of our family.
Should we let her go? Nick asks.
Simon sighs.
She should decide for herself. If she wants to leave, we wont stop her.
Margaret looks between them, bewildered, then nods slowly.
I think Id like to know you again, she says.
A tentative smile appears on Nicks face.
Ill wait, he promises. As long as it takes.
He steps out of the flat, glancing back at the glowing thirdfloor window. The rain has stopped, stars peek through the clouds. He inhales the damp air, finally feeling he can breathe fully.
Shes alive. Shes been found. The rest can be untangled later, together.
He climbs back into his cab, gives one last wave toward the window. In the pane, Eleanornow Margaretwatches him, and he feels her hand wave back.
Tomorrow will be a new day, a new life, a fresh start with a love rediscovered.
First thing, hell call Inspector Mary Parker and tell her the case isnt ready to close. Sometimes the lost are found, even after a year and a half, even when hope seems almost gone.
All because a cab driver delivered a passenger to the very house where a light burned on the third floor.
