The taxi pulled up outside the flat and stopped dead in its tracks. In the upstairs window Nicholas Anderson saw a glimpse of the woman who had vanished three hundred and sixtyfive days ago.
Enough! he snapped, tossing a photograph onto the kitchen table. His voice trembled. Its been a year and a half, Emily. She wont come back.
Inspector Mary Parker, the local constable, lifted the picture gently and slid it back into her folder. Mr. Anderson, were closing the file. Under the law enough time has passed to officially record Emily Clarke as missing.
You mean dead, Nicholas muttered bitterly, a grim smile curling his lips.
I didnt say that, Mary replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
He took the pen, stared at the document for a long second, then signed with a sweeping flourish.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?
Mr. Anderson, Mary sighed, I understand how hard this is for you. Weve done everything we can.
I know, he whispered, his eyes dulling. Forgive me. Every time you bring that folder, the nightmare starts againsleepless nights, the same thoughts, the same memories
I understand, the inspector said, nodding. If you recall anything that could help, let us know.
For the past eighteen months Ive replayed every day, every hour before she disappeared, Nicholas said, shaking his head. Nothing. Just a normal morning, a regular breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she was gone, somewhere between home and work.
Mary gathered the papers and rose. In my experience, people sometimes turn up after three, five years.
And in yours, have you ever had a case where a wife simply walked out to another man without a word? Nicholas asked sharply.
She was silent for a moment, then nodded. Yes. But they usually leave a note.
When the constables door shut, Nicholas slumped into the armchair and closed his eyes. Eighteen months had passed since Emily walked out and never returned. No phone call, no text. Her mobile was switched off, her bank cards untouched. It was as if she had slipped through the earth.
He’d tried everythingpolice inquiries, private detectives, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew where she was.
The first months were the worst. Endless interrogationsof course the husband is always the prime suspectsearches, false hopes. Then came the numbness, a dull ache in his chest, and a flood of questions without answers.
Why? How had he missed it? Was she unhappy? Did she meet someone else? Had something terrible happened? Maybe she was alive but couldnt reach out? He forced himself not to think about it.
A sudden ring tore him from his gloom. The caller ID showed the local taxi dispatch.
Hello, Nicholas? the weary voice of dispatcher Rachel answered. Can you start tomorrow morning? Weve got a backlog of jobs and the driver is down with a pressure issue.
Yes, of course, Nicholas said, rubbing his bridge of the nose. What time?
At six, if you can. First run to the airport.
Will do.
Nicholas had taken the cab licence three months after Emily vanished. Hed lost his job as a civil engineerhis employer had been patient, but endless unpaid leave finally broke their tolerance. He could no longer focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving a cab suited him. It was mechanical work that required attention but not intense concentration. No attachmentspassengers came and went, conversations flickered, stories shifted. One day you were ferrying a businessman, the next a nervous mother with a toddler. The only duty was to get people from point A to point B.
His morning began as alwaysup at five, a cold shower, a strong coffee. He stared at his reflection: a gaunt face, a thin line of grey at the temples, wrinkles that hadnt been there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, looking fifty.
The first passenger waited outside the block: a stout man with two suitcases, jittery and chatty. All the way to Heathrow he rattled on about a trip to Brighton, a demanding motherinlaw, a boss who thought he was a workaholic. Nicholas nodded, offered occasional affirmations, but his mind drifted.
The day unfolded in a blur of railway stations, shopping centres, office blocks, and back again. By evening fatigue settled in, but the dispatcher asked for one more job.
Nick, we need a lift from River Street to Green Estate. Last one for tonight, the clients waiting.
Alright, Nicholas sighed, checking the address on his GPS.
The client turned out to be a young woman with a small boy, about three or four years old, who whined at the thought of getting in the car.
Tommy, please, his mother coaxed. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shrieked. I want to go to Grandmas!
Well see Grandma on Saturday, I promise. For now we have to get home.
Nicholas waited patiently as they climbed in. The child fussed, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once settled in the back seat. Its been a hard day.
No problem, Nicholas replied, flipping the meter. Green Estate, Lime Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
The journey stretched longer than expectedan accident in the city centre snarled traffic for almost an hour. The boy eventually fell asleep on his mothers lap. She stared out the window, silent. Nicholas turned on soft music, careful not to wake the child.
When they finally cleared the jam, dusk had settled. A light drizzle fell, puddles gathering on the road. Nicholas drove with a growing headache.
Green Estate was on the edge of the towna row of new flats, tall brick towers still halffilled. He rarely visited places like this; the anonymity of the concrete blocks unnerved him.
Right here, the woman said as they turned into the courtyard. Third block, please.
Nicholas obeyed, stopping in front of a plain seventeenstorey block.
Here we are, he announced, cutting the engine. Thatll be £20, please.
She handed over a fivepound note.
No change needed. Thanks for your patience.
Thank you, Nicholas said, offering to help with the child. He opened the rear door, and the mother handed the sleeping boy to him before stepping out herself. He cradled the toddler gently while she paid and gathered her bags.
Ill take him, she said finally.
Are you sure? I could bring him up to the flat.
No, no, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
Nicholas placed the boy back in the seat, watched the woman disappear into the building, then lingered a moment longer. The rain was still falling, cold air biting his cheeks. He turned the key, the engine humming, and his eyes fell on the thirdfloor windows.
One light flickered on. A silhouette moved behind the curtainsa womans profile, familiar in a way that made his heart stumble.
It was Emily.
He didnt know how hed gotten out of the car, crossed the courtyard, or entered the stairwell. He felt as if he were walking through fog, hearing distant voices, feeling unseen gazes. All that mattered was the third floor, the flat with the light.
The lift was out of order, so he ran up the stairs, breath ragged, pausing at the fourth door. He remembered the placement of the windows; counting from the left, the right flat was the second from the landing. He stood before it, hand trembling, and pressed the doorbell.
Silence stretched, then a low click. The door opened.
A man in his forties, in a faded Tshirt and pajama pants, stood there, surprised.
What do you want? he asked, brow furrowed.
Nicholas opened his mouth, but words failed him. I Im looking for my wife, Emily Clarke.
The mans face shifted from confusion to unease.
Theres no Emily Clarke here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He began to close the door, but Nicholas grabbed the knob.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not crazy, I swear. Shes my wife. She disappeared a year and a half ago.
The man hesitated, then the door swung wider. Behind him stood a womanshe was the passenger Nicholas had just dropped off, cradling the sleeping child.
Whats happening, Simon? she asked, looking at the stranger.
This man says hes seen his wife in our flat, Simon replied, eyes darting between them.
Emilyno, the womantilted her head, then her eyes widened.
Youre the taxi driver who brought us here! she exclaimed. What are you doing?
I saw my wife in your window, Nicholas insisted, voice cracking. Emily Clarke. About fivefootseven, dark hair to her shoulders, a mole above her right eyebrow.
The couple exchanged a wary glance.
Look, theres no Emily here, the man said. Only me, my wife Lena, and our son.
My mother, the woman added quietly. Shes been living with us for a year now. Her name is…
Gillian, she whispered. Gillian Parker.
Nicholas breath hitched. May I see her? Just a minute. If its not her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
After a tense pause, Simon grudgingly nodded.
They led him to a modest hallway. Lena took the boy to another room, while Simon gestured for Nicholas to follow. They passed the living room and stopped before a closed door.
Stay here, Simon said. Ill warn her first.
He knocked gently, then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. Voices murmured behind the door, indecipherable.
When the door finally opened, a small bedroom appeared, neatly made, a dresser against the wall, family photos on the dresser. In a cushioned chair by the window sat a woman, gazing out at the rain.
She turned slowly, and Nicholas felt his heart seize.
Emilyno, Gilliansat there, hair cut short, a faint scar on her chin, the same mole above her eyebrow. Her eyes were green, her expression blank, as if she were trying to place a missing puzzle piece.
Emily? Nicholas whispered, his voice hoarse.
She looked at him, puzzled. Im sorry, you must be mistaken. Im Gillian, she said softly.
Its you, he pleaded, stepping forward. Its my wife. We were married eight years. We live on Saffron Street, I work at the library. We were expecting a child.
She frowned, confusion flickering across her face.
Simon? she asked, her voice trembling. Whos that?
Simon stepped in, placing a hand on her shoulder. Its okay, love. Hes a friend of Lenas. Hes leaving now.
Nicholas felt the room tilt. My wifeEmilyshes here. Shes my wife. Ive been looking for her for eighteen months.
She stared at him, eyes wide with fear. I dont know you. My name is Gillian Parker. Im Lenas mother.
Nicholas recited detailsher mole, the scar, the fear of heights, a love of strawberry icecream, an aversion to chrysanthemums. She examined her chin, as if checking the scar.
Lena entered, the boy now asleep on a sofa. Whats happening? she asked, alarmed.
This man is saying Im his wife, Gillian said, voice shaking. Hes calling me by another name.
Simon grabbed Nicholass arm. You need to leave, he said firmly. Now.
No! Nicholas snapped, shaking Simons grip. Explain whats going on! Why does my wife live here under a different name? Why does she call you her soninlaw?
We didnt do anything to her, Simon said, exasperated. We just gave her a roof when she had nowhere else to go.
The police declared her missing the same day she vanished, Nicholas recalled. I filed a report! Why didnt anyone find her?
It must have slipped through, Simon shrugged. No ID, no fingerprints. She was found unconscious on the north side bridge, covered in snow. She had amnesia. The hospital couldnt confirm her identity.
Lena nodded. We took her in after her mother died. We thought she was a sign, that we should help her.
Nicholass anger surged. You stole my wife, gave her a new name, a new life!
We gave her shelter, Simon replied. When no one else would.
Ive been searching every day! Nicholas shouted, tears breaking free.
Gillians face paled, hands trembling. The bridge the cold a white van a man I remember being grabbed, forced into a car. I screamed, but no one helped.
What man? Nicholas demanded.
She shook her head, eyes glazed. I cant remember. I dont want to think about it.
Lena moved closer, wrapping an arm around her. You dont have to remember now. Youre safe.
But I need to know, Gillian said, looking directly at Nicholas. Are you really my husband?
He stepped forward, dropping to his knees beside the chair. Emily, look at me. Do you remember anything? Our first meeting at the park? The icecream incident? The joke about me having to wash your shirts forever?
A flicker of recognition crossed her face, then faded.
Its not Im not Im Gillian, she whispered. I dont remember you.
Nicholas placed his hand over the scar on her chin. You have this scar from a childhood bike accident, right? Youre terrified of heights, love strawberry icecream, cant stand the smell of chrysanthemums.
She touched her chin, as if confirming.
Lenas voice broke in, Well let her decide. She can stay with us or go with you. Its her choice.
Nicholas stared at the boy, at the rainstreaked window, at the woman who was both familiar and foreign. He realized he could not force a decision on someone whose mind was a blank canvas.
Okay, he said quietly. Well give her time. Ill wait. Ill come back, and well… get to know each other again, if you want.
Simon released his grip. We wont stop seeing her. Shes our mother now. But we wont stop her from seeing you if she wishes.
Gillian gave a faint smile, the first real one since the night shed been found. I think I think Id like to try to remember you.
Nicholas felt a tide of relief, a flood of emotions he hadnt felt in years. He stood, looking out the window one last time. In the dim glow, Emilys silhouette seemed to linger, a promise of something renewed.
He walked back to his cab, paused at the curb, and raised his hand in a silent farewell. The figure in the window raised a hand back, a ghost of a smile.
The rain stopped, the sky cleared, and stars began to peek through the clouds. Nicholas inhaled the cool night air, finally feeling he could breathe.
He would call Inspector Mary Parker tomorrow and ask her not to close the case just yet. Some things, even after a year and a half, can still be foundif youre willing to keep looking.
He slid into the drivers seat, glanced once more at the glowing thirdfloor window, and drove away, the city lights stretching behind him, a new day waiting.
