The cab driver pulled up outside the house and stopped, his breath catching at the sight of his vanished wife in the upstairs window.
Enough! How many times must I stir the past? Nicholas Andrews hurled the photograph onto the table, his voice trembling. One and a half years have passed, Emma. She will not return.
Mr. Andrews, please understand me, Constable Margaret Jones gently lifted the picture, slipped it back into its file. We are closing the case. By law enough time has elapsed to declare Vera Sinclair missing in action.
You mean dead, Nicholas sneered bitterly.
I never said that, the officer replied softly. Its simply paperwork. Sign here, please.
He took the offered pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping flourish.
Thats all? Will you leave me alone now?
Nicholas, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, we have done everything we could.
I know, he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. Forgive me. Every time you come with that file, it all starts anew: sleepless nights, endless thoughts, memories
I get it, the constable nodded. But if anything comes to mind that might help
In the past year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nicholas shook his head. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. A normal morning, a regular breakfast. See you tonight, love. And that was it. She simply slipped away between home and work.
Margaret gathered the papers and stood.
In my experience, people have turned up after three, even five years.
And have you ever had a case where a wife simply left for another man without a word? Nicholas asked sharply.
She fell silent, then nodded.
Yes. Though most at least leave a note.
When the constable closed the door behind her, Nicholas sank into his chair and shut his eyes. One and a half years had slipped by since Vera disappeared. She had walked out and never come back. No call, no message. Her phone was dead, her bank cards untouched. It was as if she had melted into the earth.
He had tried everything the police, private detectives, adverts in the Gazette, posts on the internet. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew where she was.
The first months were the hardest. Endless interrogations (the husband, of course, always the prime suspect), frantic searches, fleeting hope. Then came a numbness, a dull ache in his chest, and endless questions without answers.
Why? How had he missed it? Was she unhappy? Had she met someone else? Had something terrible happened? Could she be alive but unable to reach out? He tried not to dwell on it.
A ringing phone jolted him from his gloom. The display showed the local taxi firms number.
Hello, Nicholas? the weary voice of dispatcher Tamara answered. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Perkins is in a press of appointments and were shorthanded.
Certainly, Nicholas said, pinching the bridge of his nose. What time?
Six oclock, if you can. First run to the airport.
Ill be there.
Nicholas had taken up driving a cab three months after Veras disappearance. He had lost his engineering job the firm had been patient, but the endless unpaid leave and sick days finally wore them out. He could no longer focus on calculations and blueprints.
Steering a wheel proved perfect. It was mechanical work that demanded attention but not intense concentration. No attachments faces of passengers flickered by, conversations changed, stories swapped. Today you ferry them, tomorrow someone else. No responsibility beyond getting from point A to point B.
Mornings began as always up at five, a cold shower, a strong cup of tea. Nicholas caught his reflection in the mirror a wan face, a few grey hairs at the temples, lines that hadnt been there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, but looking fifty.
His first passenger waited at the curb a stout man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. All the way to the airport he jabbered about a trip to Brighton, a motherinlaw who torments his wife, a boss whos a tyrant. Nicholas nodded, gave the occasional right, but his mind drifted far away.
The day passed in a blur the station, the shopping centre, the business park, back to the station. By evening fatigue settled in, yet he couldnt go home; his dispatcher asked for one more job.
Colin, we need you from River Lane to Green Estate. Last run today, the clients waiting.
Alright, Nicholas sighed, checking the address on his GPS.
The client turned out to be a young mother with a small child. The boy was three or four, whiny, refusing to get into the car.
Milo, please, his mother coaxed. Well be home soon; Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the child shouted. I want to visit Grandma!
She promised a Saturday visit to Grandma, then urged him to settle. Nicholas waited while they settled into the back seat. The ride grew tedious the child whined, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once finally, settling herself. Its been a hard day.
No problem, Nicholas replied, turning the meter. Green Estate, Lime Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled after an accident in the city centre; they sat in a jam for nearly an hour. The boy gradually quieted, eventually drifting to sleep on his mothers lap. She stared out the window, silent. Nicholas put on a soft tune, careful not to wake the child.
When they finally emerged from the jam, dusk had fallen. A light drizzle pattered, puddles forming on the road. Nicholas drove with steady focus, a throbbing headache building.
Green Estate lay on the towns outskirts new flats, tall blocks, still halfempty. Nicholas rarely ventured there; the anonymous concrete towers never appealed to him.
Right here, turn, the mother instructed as they entered a narrow culdesac. And the third doorway, please.
He obeyed, stopping at a plain seventeenstorey panel block.
Weve arrived, he announced, switching off the engine. Thatll be four pounds twenty.
She handed over a fivepound note.
No change needed, thank you for your patience.
Thank you for your generosity, Nicholas smiled. May I help with the child?
He opened the rear door, and the mother handed him the sleeping boy before slipping out herself.
Ill take him, she said. Are you sure?
No need, well manage. My husband is home, hell help.
She left the child in his arms, then hurried to the entrance. Nicholas lingered, watching the rain, the cold, the boys tiny chest rise and fall.
He glanced up at the windows of the block. On the third floor a light flickered. A woman stood at the doorway, silhouetted against the yellow glow. Her profile, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, struck him like a bolt.
His heart staggered, then hammered. He knew that pose, that gesture countless times over the years.
Vera. His Vera. The woman who had vanished a year and a half ago.
He could not recall how he moved from his car to the stairwell, how he entered the building. It was as if the world had gone misty, voices muffled, eyes watching. All that mattered was the third floor, the flat that faced the street.
The lift was out of order, so he hurried up the stairs, breath shallow, reaching the landing. Four doors stood before him. He remembered the layout the second door from the left was the one. He pressed the buzzer. A long, tense pause, then footsteps. The lock clicked, the door swung open.
A man in his forties, dressed in houseslippers and a Tshirt, stood there, bewildered.
Yes? he asked.
Nicholas opened his mouth, but no words came.
Who are you looking for? the man pressed his eyebrows together.
Im Nicholas swallowed. Im searching for a woman. Vera Sinclair.
The mans expression shifted from surprise to caution.
Theres no Vera Sinclair here, he said. You must have the wrong address.
He began to shut the door, but Nicholas held it ajar.
Wait! I saw her in the window just now. Im not mad, I swear. Shes my wife, she disappeared over a year ago.
The man hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood a woman the very passenger Nicholas had just driven. She clutched the sleeping child.
Whats happening, Stephen? she asked, eyebrows knitting.
This man claims to have seen his wife in our window, Stephen replied. He says shes Vera Sinclair.
The womans eyes widened.
Youre the cab driver who brought us here! What are you doing?
Nicholas repeated his claim, describing Veras height, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above her right brow.
The couple exchanged glances that tightened Nicholass throat.
Listen, Stephen said finally. Theres no Vera here. Its just me, my wife Lena, and our son.
And Gwendolyn Sergeevna? the woman whispered, confused.
Im she said, looking at Nicholas. My name is Gwendolyn. Im Lenas mother.
Nicholass voice cracked with fury.
Youve taken my wife, given her a new name, a new life!
We gave her a roof and a family when no one else would, Stephen countered. When she was found, she had no memory.
Ive been searching! Nicholas shouted. Every day, every minute!
Gwendolyn suddenly stood, pale, hands trembling.
The bridge snow cold she murmured.
Silence fell. Lena gently asked, Mum, do you remember something?
A car a white car a man Gwendolyn whispered, pressing her forehead as if to summon a ghost.
Nicholas stepped forward.
Vera, you rode the bus to work as usual. What happened after?
She stared through him, eyes unfocused.
He grabbed me. Dragged me into a vehicle. I screamed, but nobody nobody helped.
Who? Nicholas pressed.
She shook her head, refusing the nightmare.
Lena embraced her. You dont have to talk if you dont want to. Youre safe now.
But I need to know, Vera said, looking at Nicholas. Are you really my husband?
Yes, he whispered, sinking to his knees. We live on Garden Street, I work in the library. We dreamed of children.
A flicker of recognition passed across her face, brief as a flash.
I she reached out, touching his cheek. I dont remember, but something feels familiar.
Nicholas placed his hand over hers.
Youll remember, in time. Ill help you.
Turning to Stephen and Lena, he said, Thank you for rescuing her, for caring. But she belongs with me. I want her back.
Lena began to sob, covering her mouth. We loved her. Shes become part of our family.
Stephen nodded. She can decide. If she wants to stay with you, we wont stop you.
Gwendolyn, looking bewildered, whispered, I dont know you. I thought I was Lenas mother.
Stephen placed a hand on her shoulder. Take your time. Get to know each other again. Make sure youre who you think you are.
Nicholas wanted to argue what more time could there be after finding his lost wife? Yet looking at her frightened stare, he realised Stephen was right. She needed space, not a forceful pull.
Very well, he said at last. Ill give it time. Well meet again, slowly.
And you wont take her to the police? Stephen asked.
No, Nicholas promised. As long as you dont block us.
Gwendolyn managed a weak smile. I think Id like to get to know you again.
The smile was a sliver of sunshine breaking through the clouds. Nicholas felt his throat tighten, tears threatening.
Ill wait, he said. As long as it takes.
Leaving the flat, he glanced back at the window on the third floor. In the dim light, a familiar silhouette stared down at him. He raised his hand in a silent farewell, and she seemed to answer with a faint wave.
Tomorrow would be another day. A new life. A rediscovered love.
For now, he would go home, call Constable Margaret Jones, and ask her not to close the case just yet. Because sometimes the lost are found, even after a year and a half, even when hope is almost extinguished. Even if it took a cab driver and a chance address to bring the light back to a thirdfloor window.
