The cab pulled up to a modest terraced house on the outskirts of Birmingham and stopped dead when a figure appeared in the upstairs window his missing wife.
Enough! How many times must we rake over the past? Nicholas Andrews hurled a photograph onto the kitchen table, his voice trembling. Its been a year and a half, Emma. Shes not coming back.
Inspector Mary Parker, the local police constable, lifted the picture gently and slid it back into her folder. Were closing the case, Mr. Andrews. By law enough time has passed to declare Ethel Andrews missing.
You mean dead, Nicholas sneered, a bitter smile flickering across his face.
Thats not what I said, Mary replied softly. Just paperwork. Please sign here.
He took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping, resigned flourish.
Is that all? Will you finally leave me alone?
Mr. Andrews, Mary sighed, I understand your anguish. Weve done everything we can.
I know, he said, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Sorry. Every time you bring that file, it restarts the nightmare sleepless nights, endless thoughts, relentless memories
I get it, the inspector nodded. But if anything surfaces, anything that could help
For a year and a half Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, Nicholas said, shaking his head. Nothing. No strange signs. Just a normal morning, a simple breakfast. See you tonight, love. Then she slipped away between home and work.
Mary gathered the papers and stood. In my experience, people have turned up after three years, even five.
And have any of them come back because they simply left you for someone else without a word? Nicholas snapped.
She was silent a moment, then answered, Yes. Though they usually leave a note.
When the inspectors door closed, Nicholas sank into his armchair and shut his eyes. A year and a half had passed since Ethel walked out and never returned. No call, no text. Her phone was switched off, her bank cards untouched. She seemed to have dissolved into the earth itself.
Hed tried everything the police, private investigators, adverts in The Times, online posts. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew.
The first months were the hardest. Interrogations (the husband always the prime suspect), frantic searches, false hopes. Then a numbness settled, a dull, throbbing ache in his chest, and a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? Had he missed something? Was she unhappy? Did she find someone else? Or had something terrible happened? Could she be alive but unable to contact him? He forced himself not to think of that.
A ringing phone tore him from his gloom. The number displayed City Cabs.
Hello, Nicholas? the dispatcher, Tamara, sounded weary. Can you start early tomorrow? Petrovs on blood pressure and were swamped with bookings.
Sure, Nicholas said, pinching the bridge of his nose. What time?
At six. First run to the airport.
Got it.
Nicholas had taken up taxi work three months after Ethel disappeared. Hed lost his engineering job management was sympathetic at first, but endless sick days and unpaid leave finally wore them out. He no longer could focus on calculations or blueprints.
Driving was perfect. It required attention but not the deep concentration his old job demanded. No attachments passengers came and went, conversations flickered, stories passed like clouds. One day youre delivering a family, the next youre shuttling a lone businessman. The only responsibility: get from point A to point B.
Morning began as always up at five, a cold shower, a strong cup of tea. Nicholas caught his reflection: a wan face, silver streaks at the temples, lines that werent there a year and a half ago. Fortytwo, looking fifty.
His first fare waited at the curb a portly man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. He babbled the whole way about a trip to Manchester, a motherinlaw who nagged, and a boss who was a tyrant. Nicholas nodded, gave the occasional right, but his mind drifted.
The day unfolded in a familiar rhythm the train station, the shopping centre, the business park, back to the station. By evening fatigue settled in, but the dispatcher asked for one more job.
Kenny, can you do it? From Riverbank to Greenfield 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 mother with a small boy, maybe three or four, who whined and refused to sit down.
Danny, please, she coaxed. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shouted. I want Grandmas!
Grandmas on Saturday, love. Right now we need to get home, she promised.
Nicholas waited patiently as they climbed in. The ride was going to be long the child whined, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she settled in the back seat. Its been a hard day.
No problem, Nicholas replied, glancing at his meter. Greenfield Estate, Lipton Road, number 17, right?
Exactly.
Traffic snarled after an accident in the city centre; they sat in a jam for almost an hour. The boy finally fell asleep on his mothers lap. She stared out the window in silence. Nicholas put on soft music, careful not to wake the child.
When they finally cleared the jam, night had fallen. A light drizzle misted the roads, ponds forming in the gutters. Nicholas drove steadily, fighting a growing headache.
Greenfield Estate was a fringe development rows of new flats, stark concrete blocks still halffinished. He rarely ventured here; the anonymity of the buildings unnerved him.
Right turn here, the mother directed as they entered a courtyard. Third door on the left, please.
He obeyed, parked in front of a plain seventeenstorey block. Weve arrived, he said, turning off the engine. £4.20, please.
She handed over a £5 note.
No change needed. Thanks for waiting.
Thanks for the tip, Nicholas smiled. Let me help with the little one.
He opened the rear door, the mother handed the sleeping boy to him, then slipped away with her bags. Nicholas cradled the child gently as she paid and headed toward the entrance.
Ill take him, she said.
Are you sure? Maybe I should drop him at the flat?
No, well manage. My husbands home, hell help.
Nicholas handed the boy back; the child stirred but didnt wake. The mother thanked him again and disappeared into the building. Nicholas lingered in the car, watching the rain soak the pavement, the streetlamp flickering above the thirdfloor windows.
In one of those windows a light glowed. A silhouette moved, briefly catching his eye. His heart missed a beat, then raced. He recognized the profile, the way a stray lock of hair fell behind the ear the same gesture hed seen a thousand times.
Ethel.
He didnt know how hed gotten out of the car, crossed the courtyard, or entered the stairwell. The world seemed a fog of voices and glances. The only clue: third floor, a flat with a window facing his street.
The lift was out of order, so he sprinted up the stairs, breath ragged, to the third level. Four doors stared back at him. He remembered the layout: the second door from the left.
He pressed the buzzer. A long, agonising pause, then a shuffling sound, a click, and the door swung open.
A man in his forties, in jogging shorts and a plain Tshirt, stood there, puzzled.
Yes? he asked.
Nicholas opened his mouth but no words came. Where is? he stammered.
You looking for someone? the man asked, brow furrowed.
I Im looking for my wife. Ethel Andrews.
The mans expression shifted from confusion to guarded caution.
Theres no Ethel Andrews here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He reached for the door, but Nicholas caught the handle.
Wait! I just saw her, in that 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 a woman, the very passenger Nicholas had just dropped off, cradling a sleepy child.
Whats going on, Simon? she asked, eyes widening at the scene.
This man says hes looking for a woman named Ethel, the husband replied. He says he saw her in the window.
The womans eyes narrowed, then widened in recognition.
Youre the driver who brought us here! she exclaimed. What are you doing?
I saw my wife, Nicholas repeated, voice shaking. Ethel Andrews. About the same height as you, dark hair to the shoulders, a beauty mark above the right eyebrow.
The couple exchanged a wary glance.
We live here alone, just me, my wife Lucy, and our son, the man said. Theres no Ethel.
And theres no Lucy either, the woman whispered, turning to Nicholas. My names Linda. Im Im not sure.
Nicholas pressed forward. Please, let me see her. One minute. If she isnt her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
Lucys husband, Simon, glanced at his wife, then at the exhausted mother. He sighed, his shoulders slumping.
Fine. One minute. But if she isnt yours, you walk out.
They led him to a small hallway. Lucy took the child to another room, while Simon gestured him forward. He knocked gently on a closed door, then entered without waiting for an answer.
Inside, a modest bedroom: a neatly made bed, a dresser, a few family photos on the wall. By the window sat a woman in a comfortable armchair, watching the rain.
She turned slowly. Nicholass breath caught.
Ethel.
She was thinner, hair cropped short, a faint scar on her chin from a childhood bike fall, the same beauty mark. Her green eyes flickered with something like recognition, then confusion.
Ethel, he whispered.
She looked at him, her expression blank.
Im sorry, she said softly. Youve got the wrong woman. My name is Helen.
Her voice was familiar, but the cadence was off.
Ethel, its me, Kenny, Nicholas said, stepping closer, his knee wobbling. Your husband.
She frowned, a flash of alarm crossing her face.
Simon? she called out. Whos this?
Simon entered, placing a hand on her shoulder. All right, Kenny, youre disturbing my mother-in-law.
My motherinlaw? Nicholas scoffed. Shes my wife, Ethel Andrews! Weve been married eight years.
HelenLucywhatever stared at him, bewildered. I dont know you. Why are you calling me by another name?
Nicholas knelt, his voice cracking. Do you remember the day we met? In the park, you dropped an ice cream on my shirt and I joked youd have to marry me to wash it out. You laughed. Weve always loved strawberry icecream, you hate chrysanthemums
A faint shadow passed over her face, as if a memory tried to surface, then vanished.
No, she said, voice trembling. Im not who you think I am.
Simons grip tightened. You need to leave, Kenny. My wifes not interested in this.
Wait! Nicholas pleaded. Dont you see? Youre my Ethel. Ive been searching for you for a year and a half.
Helen looked between them, tears welling. I was found on a field near the northern bridge after a crash. I woke up with no memory. They gave me a name, a home. I thought I was Lucys mother. I believed that.
Simon exhaled, shoulders slumping. We took her in. She had nowhere else to go. We thought we were doing right.
Nicholass mind spun. I filed a missingperson report the same day. The police never linked us. You saved her but you gave her a new life under a false name.
Helens hands trembled as she touched the scar on her chin. I cant remember anything before the accident. The rain, the car
LucyLindamoved forward, her eyes softening. Maybe we should give her time. Let her decide who she wants to be.
Nicholas wanted to argue, to grab his wife and never let go again. But looking at the frightened woman, he realised the mans words were right. She needed space, not force.
Okay, he said finally, voice hoarse. Give me time. If she remembers, if she chooses, Ill be here.
Simon nodded. We wont block you. But no police reports, no threats. Well let her decide.
Helen gave a faint smile. Id like to know you again.
Nicholas felt a strange relief, as if a storm had finally passed. The rain outside ceased, stars peeking through the clouds. He turned back to his cab, casting one last look at the thirdfloor window where the silhouette of Ethel had stood.
He raised his hand in a silent farewell; she seemed to wave back.
Tomorrow would be a new day. A new beginning, a chance to rediscover a love that had been lost in the fog of time.
He drove away, the city lights blurring past, and thought of calling Inspector Mary Parker, telling her the case wasnt closed. Sometimes the lost are found, even after a year and a half, even when hope seems almost dead.
All it took was a cab ride, the right address, and a flash of light in a thirdfloor window.
