The cab pulled up to the house and stopped dead when a figure appeared in the window his longlost wife.
Enough! How many times must I dig up the past? Nicholas Andrews flung the photograph onto the kitchen table, his voice shaking. Its been a year and a half, Hannah. Shes not coming back.
Inspector Margaret Bishop, the local constable, lifted the picture gently and slipped it back into her folder. Were closing the case, Mr. Andrews. Under the law enough time has passed to declare Ethel Andrews missing.
You mean dead, Nicholas muttered, a sour smile curling his lip.
I didnt say that, Margaret replied softly. Its just paperwork. Please sign here.
He took the pen, stared at the form for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping flourish.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?
Mr. Andrews, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, he said, rubbing his eyes. Forgive me. Every time you turn up with that file, its a fresh wave of sleeplessness, thoughts, memories
I get it, the inspector nodded. But if anything does surface that could help
For the past eighteen months Ive replayed every single day before she vanished, Nicholas said, shaking his 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. Ive had cases where people turned up years later.
And youve had cases where a wife simply left for someone else without a word? Nicholas snapped.
The woman was silent a moment, then answered, Yes, but they usually leave a note.
When the constable left, Nicholas sank into his armchair and closed his eyes. Eighteen months had slipped by since Ethel walked out and never returned. No call, no text. Her phone was dead, no creditcard activity as if shed dissolved into the ground.
Hed tried everything the police, private detectives, ads in the Daily Mail, posts on online forums. Nothing. No one had seen her.
The first months were the worst. Endless interrogations (of course, the husband is always the prime suspect), frantic searches, clinging to hope. Then came the 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? Was something terrible happening? Could she be alive but unable to reach out? He tried not to think about it.
A ring on his phone jolted him out of the gloom. It was the taxi dispatch.
Hello, Nick? the tired voice of dispatcher Tamara said. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Browns got high blood pressure and were swamped with jobs.
Sure thing, Nick said, rubbing his nose. What time?
At six, first run to the airport.
Got it.
Nicholas had taken up driving cabs three months after Ethel vanished. Hed lost his engineering job the boss was sympathetic, but endless unpaid leave finally wore thin. He could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving a cab was the perfect fit: mechanical, requiring attention but not deep concentration. No emotional strings passengers came and went, their stories flickered like streetlights. One day you ferry a businessman, the next a mum with a toddler.
His mornings began at five, with a cold shower and a strong cup of tea. He stared at his reflection a gaunt face, a hint of grey at the temples, wrinkles that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, looking more like fifty.
The first passenger waited outside a stout man with two suitcases, jittery and chatty. All the way to Heathrow he babbled about a trip to Manchester, his motherinlaw who was a nightmare, and a boss who thought he was a saint. Nicholas nodded politely, but his mind drifted.
The day drifted on a train station, a shopping centre, an office block, back to the station. By evening fatigue set in, but he couldnt go home; the dispatcher had one more job.
Nick, we need you from River Road to Greenfield Estate. Last one for today, the clients already waiting.
Alright, he sighed, checking the address on his GPS.
The client turned out to be a young woman with a small child. The boy, about three or four, whined and refused to sit down.
Tommy, please, his mother pleaded. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
No go home! the child shouted. I want Grandma!
Well see Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Right now we need to get home.
Nicholas waited while they settled. The ride was going to be a test of patience the toddler whined, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she managed to sit in the back. Its been a rough day.
No worries, Nicholas replied, glancing at the meter. Greenfield Estate, Linden Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled after an accident in the city centre, turning a short jaunt into an hourlong crawl. The boy eventually fell asleep on his mothers lap. She stared out the window, silent. Nicholas put on soft music, careful not to wake the little sleeper.
When they finally emerged from the jam it was dark, a drizzle spattering the road, puddles forming. Nicholas drove with a throbbing headache, focusing on the road.
Greenfield Estate lay on the outskirts rows of new flats, tall blocks still halffilled. Nicholas rarely ventured here; the concrete towers felt soulless.
Turn right here, the woman said as they entered the courtyard. And to the third door, please.
He obeyed, stopped at a nondescript seventeenstorey block.
Here we are, he said, turning off the engine. Thatll be £4.20.
She handed over a £5 note. No change needed. Thanks for your patience.
Thanks for the generosity, Nicholas smiled. Mind if I help with the little one?
He opened the rear door, the mother gently placed the sleeping boy in his arms, then stepped out.
Ill take him, she said.
Are you sure? Could I drop him at the flat?
No, thank you, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
He handed the child back, the boy stirred but didnt wake. She thanked him again and vanished up the stairs. Nicholas lingered, watching the rain drizzle on the pavement. He turned the key in the ignition, then his eyes caught a light in a thirdfloor window.
A woman stood there, silhouetted against the glow. Her profile was unmistakable the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
His heart hammered. It was Ethel.
He couldnt recall how hed gotten out of the car, crossed the courtyard, or entered the building. He felt as if he were moving through fog, hearing distant voices, sensing eyes on him. All that mattered: the third floor, a flat with a window facing his direction.
The lift was out of order, so he sprinted up the stairs, breath ragged, reaching the third floor. Four doors stared back at him. He remembered the layout the correct flat was the second door on the left. He pressed the buzzer, his hand trembling. After a long, painful pause, footsteps approached. The door swung open.
A man in his forties, in homey loungewear, stood in the doorway.
Can I help you? he asked, puzzled.
Nicholas opened his mouth, but words stuck. I Im looking for a woman. Ethel Andrews.
The mans expression shifted from confusion to wariness.
Theres no Ethel Andrews here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He began to close the door, but Nicholas placed a hand on it.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not crazy, I swear. Shes my wife, vanished a year and a half ago.
The man hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood the very passenger Nicholas had just dropped off, a young woman cradling a sleepy toddler.
What on earth is happening, Simon? she asked.
This bloke says hes seen his wife in our window, the man replied.
The woman frowned, then widened her eyes. Wait youre the cab driver who brought us here!
Nicholas repeated, I saw my wife, Ethel Andrews, in your window. Shes about your height, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above her right eyebrow.
The couple exchanged glances, tension thickening the air.
Theres no Ethel here, the man said finally. Just me, my wife Laura, and our son.
Im not losing my mind, Nicholas protested. Ethels name, the mole, the scar on her chin from a childhood bike fall you know it.
Laura, the woman, placed a hand on his shoulder. Simon, maybe we should let him look?
Simon shook his head. Shes not shes not in a state to see strangers.
Please, Nicholas pleaded, desperation cracking his voice. Just a minute. If its not her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
After a tense pause, Simon relented. Fine. One minute. No tricks.
They led him to a modest hallway. Laura took the toddler to another room, while Simon gestured Nicholas forward. He knocked on a closed door, waited, then opened it without waiting for an answer.
Inside, a modest bedroom: a neatly made bed, a dresser, a few family photos on the wall. Near the window sat a chair, and in it a woman looking out at the drizzle. She turned, and Nicholass breath caught.
She was thinner, hair cut shorter, but the mole was there, the scar on her chin, the green eyes.
Ethel? he whispered.
She blinked, her expression blank. Im sorry, youve got the wrong person. Im Im Laura.
Her voice sounded familiar, yet distant.
Its me, Nick, he said, stepping closer. Your husband.
She frowned, confusion flickering. Simon? Whos that?
Simon moved to stand beside her, hand on her shoulder. All right, love, weve got to go.
Nicholas sank onto a chair, heart pounding. Laura, its not you. Its Ethel. Youre my wife.
She stared at him, fear mixing with bewilderment. What are you talking about? Im Laura. Im the mother of my son.
I know your history, Nicholas said, voice shaking. You love strawberries, hate chrysanthemums, youre terrified of heights, you once slipped on a bike
She touched her chin, feeling the scar. I I dont recall any of that.
Laura entered, eyes wide. Whats happening?
Its a case of mistaken identity, Nicholas sputtered. Or maybe not.
Simon, the man from the flat, pulled Nicholas back gently. Mate, we didnt take her. She was found unconscious on a bridge after a night out. She had no ID, no memory. We took her in, gave her a name, a home. We thought we were doing the right thing.
Nicholass anger flared. You stole my wife! Gave her a new name, a new life!
We gave her shelter, Simon replied, voice weary. She had nowhere else.
Nicholas glared. Ive been searching every day, every minute!
Laura, holding her toddler, whispered, Shes shes my mother.
Simon sighed. Were not trying to hurt you. We just we tried to help.
Nicholas felt the absurdity of the scene a cab driver, a suburban family, a missing wife turned strangers mother. He realized his fury was a mask for heartbreak.
Can she can she remember? he asked, voice softer.
Simon shook his head. Memorys a tricky thing after trauma. She might remember bits, or nothing at all.
Laura looked at her son, then at Nicholas. We love her, whatever name she goes by.
Nicholas swallowed, the irony of the situation not lost on him. I suppose I should give her time. Let her decide who she wants to be.
Simon nodded. We wont stop you seeing her, but we cant force anything.
Nicholas rose, feeling a strange calm settle over him. Alright. Ill wait. Ill be here when shes ready.
Laura gave a small, tentative smile. Thank you.
He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. The rain had stopped; stars peeked through the clouds. He breathed in the cool night air, feeling, for the first time in months, a breath of hope.
She was alive. Shed been found. The rest could be untangled later, with time, with patience.
He got back into his cab, gave the window on the third floor one last glance. In that glass, a faint silhouette seemed to wave. He raised his hand in a farewell, and she seemed to wave back.
Tomorrow would be a new day, a fresh start, a chance to reacquaint himself with a love that had been hidden in plain sight.
First thing, hed call Inspector Margaret Bishop and tell her the case wasnt quite closed. After all, sometimes the lost are found in the most unexpected of rides.
