The cab pulled up to the house and stopped, the drivers breath catching when he saw his missing wife in the upstairs window.
Enough! How many times must we stir up the past? Nick Andrews hurled a photograph onto the kitchen table, his voice trembling. Its been a year and a half, Emma. Shes not coming back.
Mr. Andrews, please listen to me, Officer Mary Parker gently lifted the picture and slipped it back into the file. Were closing the case. Legally enough time has passed to declare Emma Clarke missing.
You mean dead? Nick said, a bitter smile cracking his face.
I didnt say that, Mary replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Sign here, please.
Nick took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping hand.
Is that it? Will you leave me alone now?
Mr. Andrews, Mary sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we could.
I know, he said, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Forgive me. Every time you come with that folder, its like starting over: sleepless nights, endless thoughts, memories
I get it, the officer nodded. But if anything else comes to mind that might help
In the past eighteen months Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nick muttered. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. A normal morning, a regular breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she slipped away somewhere between home and work.
Mary gathered the papers and stood.
In my experience, some people turn up after three, even five years.
And have you ever had a case where a wife simply walked off with someone else without a word? Nick snapped.
She was silent a moment, then answered:
Yes. But they usually leave a note.
When the officer shut the door behind her, Nick sank into his chair and closed his eyes. Eighteen months had passed since Emma disappeared. She had walked out one morning and never returned. No call, no text. Her phone was off, her bank cards untouched. It was as if she had melted into the ground.
He had tried everything police inquiries, private detectives, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew where she was.
The first months were the hardest. Endless questioning (of course the husband is always the prime suspect), frantic searches, flickering hope. Then came the numbness, a dull ache in his chest, and a barrage of unanswered questions.
Why? How had he missed it? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Was something terrible happening? Could she still be alive but unable to reach out? He tried not to think about the worst.
A phone rang, pulling him from the gloom. The caller ID showed the city cab firm.
Hello, Nick? the tired voice of dispatcher Tamara answered. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Peters is down with a pressure issue and were swamped with jobs.
Yes, of course, Nick said, rubbing his nose. What time?
Six oclock, first run to the airport.
Got it, Ill be there.
Nick had taken the cab job three months after Emma vanished. Hed lost his engineering post the firm had been patient, but endless sick days and unpaid leave finally wore them thin. He could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving a cab suited him perfectly. It was manual work that required attention but not intense concentration. There were no attachments passengers came and went, conversations flickered and died. One day youre ferrying someone to the station, the next youre dropping a child at a school. The only responsibility was getting people from point A to point B.
His mornings began the same up at five, a cold shower, a strong cup of tea. He stared at his reflection: a weary face, a silver line at his temples, a few more wrinkles than a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, yet looking fifty.
The first fare waited outside his flat a portly man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. All the way to the airport he jabbered about a trip to Brighton, a motherinlaw who liked to meddle, and his overbearing boss. Nick nodded, gave the occasional right, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
The day passed in the usual rhythm railway station, shopping centre, office park, back to the station. By evening fatigue settled in, but the dispatcher asked for one more job.
Nick, could you do a run from Riverbank to Green Estate? Its the last one tonight; the client is waiting.
Alright, Nick sighed, punching the address into his GPS.
The client turned out to be a young mother with a small boy, about three or four, who whined and refused to get into the car.
Mick, please, his mother pleaded. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shouted. I want to visit Grandma!
Well see Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Right now we need to get home.
Nick waited while they settled in. The ride was going to be long the child kept whining and the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she finally sat down. Its been a rough day.
No problem, Nick replied, glancing at the meter. Green Estate, Lipton Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
Traffic snarled more than expected an accident in the city centre held them up for almost an hour. The boy eventually fell asleep on his mothers lap. She stared out the window, silent. Nick turned on soft music, careful not to wake the little sleeper.
When they finally cleared the jam, dusk had fallen, a light drizzle pattered the roads, and puddles gathered in the lanes. Nick drove with a steady hand, ignoring the throbbing headache behind his eyes.
Green Estate lay on the towns outskirts rows of new flats, tall blocks still half empty. Nick rarely visited this part; the buildings felt like featureless concrete boxes, lacking personality.
Right turn here, the mother instructed as they entered a courtyard. And third door on the left, please.
Nick obeyed, stopped at the unremarkable seventeenstorey block.
Weve arrived, he said, turning off the engine. Thatll be four hundred twenty pounds.
She handed him a fivehundredpound note.
No change needed, thank you for your patience.
Thank you for your generosity, Nick smiled. Let me help with the boy.
He opened the rear door, the mother placed the sleeping child in his arms, then stepped out.
Ill take him, she said.
Are you sure? I could carry him to the flat.
No, thank you, well manage. My husband will be home.
Nick handed the child back, the boy stirred but didnt fully wake. The mother thanked him again and headed for the entrance.
Nick lingered a moment, watching the rain drizzle down the courtyard. As he turned the engine back on, his eyes caught a light spilling from a thirdfloor window. The silhouette of a woman stood there, framed by the soft glow.
His heart stuttered, then hammered. He recognized the profile, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He knew it because he had seen it a thousand times.
Emma.
He didnt remember how hed gotten out of the car, crossed the courtyard, or entered the building. In his mind, voices drifted, glances flickered. All that mattered was the third floor, the window facing this side of the block.
The lift was out of order, so he sprinted up the stairs, breath ragged, pausing at the fourth door. He counted the windows, left to right the second one from the landing should be hers. He pressed the buzzer. A long, tense silence. Then a soft click, footsteps, and the door swung open.
A man in his forties, dressed in soft trousers and a Tshirt, stood in the doorway.
Yes? he asked, puzzled.
Nick opened his mouth, words stuck.
Im looking for a woman. Emma Clarke.
The mans expression shifted from confusion to wariness.
Theres no Emma here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He reached for the door, but Nick placed a hand on it.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not mad, I swear. Shes my wife, missing for a year and a half.
The man hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood the very passenger Nick had just dropped off, a woman holding a sleepy little boy.
What are you doing here, Steve? she asked, eyes narrowing.
This man says he saw his wife in our window, Nick repeated, voice shaking. Emma Clarke, dark hair to her shoulders, a mole above her right eyebrow.
The couple exchanged uneasy looks.
Listen, the man, Steven, said, theres no Emma in this house. Its just me, my wife Lucy, and our son.
Lucy? Nick asked, bewildered.
My mother, Lucy replied, gently. Shes been living with us for a year after a fall.
May I see her? Nick pleaded, desperation raw.
Steven shook his head.
Shes not well. And theres no point youre looking for someone who isnt here.
Lucy placed a hand on Nicks shoulder.
Let him have a look, Steven. What do we have to lose?
Steven frowned, then sighed.
Fine, but only a minute. If it isnt her, you leave.
They led Nick to a small hallway. Lucy took the boy to another room, and Steven gestured for him to follow. The hallway opened onto a modest bedroom.
Wait here, Steven whispered. Ill warn her first.
He knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer, closing the door behind him. From the room, muffled voices drifted, indecipherable.
After a moment, Steven emerged, his face tight.
You can go in. Please, dont frighten her.
Nick stepped inside. The room was tidy: a neatly made bed, a dresser, a few family photos on the wall. By the window sat a woman in a comfortable chair, looking out at the rain. She turned slowly, and Nicks breath caught.
Emma. She was thinner, her hair cut short, yet the same mole, the same green eyes, a small scar on her chin from a childhood bike accident.
Emma, he whispered.
She stared at him, expression blank.
Im sorry, youve got the wrong person, she said softly. My name is Lucy.
Her voice was familiar, yet the tones felt foreign.
Emma, its me, Nick, your husband, he said, moving closer, kneeling beside the chair. We met at the summer fair, you dropped ice cream on my shirt and I joked youd have to marry me to wash it off. You laughed.
A flicker of recognition crossed her face, then vanished.
Im not Emma, Lucy replied, shaking her head. Im Lucy Parker. Ive been living here after my fall.
Nick felt the world tilt.
Youre not Emma, but I saw you in the window, I swear.
Steven entered, his jaw clenched.
We saved her, Nick, after she was found unconscious on the bridge last March. She had amnesia, no ID, no memory. The hospital could do nothing. We took her in; she thought she was my mother.
I filed a missingperson report the very same day, Nick shouted. How could you not tell the police?
Stevens eyes softened.
We tried, but the paperwork got lost in the system. By the time we realized she had already been given a new name.
Lucy reached out, tears in her eyes.
We love her, Nick. Shes become part of our family.
I understand, Nick said, voice breaking. I just need to know if shes truly my Emma.
Lucy nodded slowly.
Shes confused. She cant remember who she was before the accident.
Steven placed a hand on Nicks shoulder.
Shell need time, Nick. You cant just pull her out of a life shes built, even if its based on a mistake.
Nick stared at the woman who might be his wife, feeling the weight of eighteen months of anguish and hope collapsing into a fragile present.
Ill wait, he said quietly. Whatever time it takes.
Lucy managed a faint smile.
We wont stop seeing each other, but she should decide for herself.
Steven agreed.
No police reports, no forced handovers. Well give her space.
Emma Lucy leaned forward, eyes flickering with something like recognition.
I I think Id like to know you again, she whispered.
A small, genuine smile broke across Nicks face, as bright as a sunrise after a long night. He felt a breath of relief, the first in a year and a half.
He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway, watching the light from the thirdfloor window fade. The rain had stopped, and the sky lit up with stars. He inhaled the cool night air, finally feeling he could breathe fully again.
The taxi waited outside. He climbed in, gave one last look at the glow in the window. In that instant, a silhouette appeared, waving. He raised his hand in farewell, and she seemed to return the gesture.
Tomorrow would be a new day, a fresh start, a chance to rebuild a love that had been lost and found again.
And as he drove away, he thought: sometimes the things we think are gone forever reappear when we least expect them, and the only thing that truly matters is the willingness to keep looking, to keep waiting, and to give time the chance to heal. The greatest lesson is that hope, however fragile, never truly dies.
