The taxi pulls up to the house and I freeze when I see my missing wife in the window.
Enough! How many times must I dig up the past? I fling the photograph onto the table, my voice trembling. Its been a year and a half, Emma. She wont come back.
Inspector Margaret Jones carefully lifts the photo, puts it back into the file. Mr. Andrews, were closing the case. By law enough time has passed to declare Emma Clarke missing.
You mean dead, I say, a bitter smile crossing my face.
Thats not what I said, she replies gently. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
I take the pen, stare at the document for a few seconds, then sign with a sweeping stroke.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone?
Mr. Nicholas Andrews, Margaret sighs, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we can.
I know, I say, rubbing my eyes wearily. Sorry. Every time you bring this folder, it all starts againinsomnia, thoughts, memories
I understand, she nods. But if anything comes to mind that could help
Ive replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, I say, shaking my head. Nothing. Just an ordinary morning, ordinary breakfast. See you tonight, love. And she was gone, somewhere between home and work.
Margaret gathers the papers and stands. In my experience, people sometimes return after three, sometimes five years.
Have you ever had a case where a wife just left for someone else without a word? I ask sharply.
She pauses, then nods. Yes. But they usually leave a note.
When the inspectors door closes, I slump into the chair and close my eyes. A year and a half has passed since Emma disappeared. She simply walked out and never returnedno call, no text. Her phone is switched off, her bank cards untouched. Its as if she dissolved into the earth.
Ive tried everythingpolice, private detectives, newspaper ads, internet posts. Nothing. No one saw her, no one knows anything.
The first months were the worst: endless interrogations (of course Im the prime suspect), frantic searches, clinging to hope. Then numbness settled in, a dull ache in my chest, and a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? How did I miss it? Was she unhappy? Did she find someone else? Did something terrible happen? Could she be alive but unable to contact me? I refuse to think about it.
The phone rings, snapping me out of the gloom. The caller ID shows the local taxi company.
Hello, Nicholas? the dispatcher, Tamara, says, her voice weary. Can you start at six tomorrow? Weve got a rush of bookings and Mr. Patel is down with a pressure issue.
Yes, of course, I reply, rubbing my bridge of the nose. What time?
Six if you can. First run to the airport.
Got it, Ill be there.
Im driving a taxi now, three months after Emma vanished. I lost my job as a civil engineermy bosses tried to accommodate me, but endless unpaid leave finally wore them out. I could no longer focus on calculations or drawings.
Steering a cab, however, works. Its manual work that needs attention but not intense concentration. No attachmentspassengers come and go, conversations flicker, stories change. One day youre ferrying someone, the next its a different person. The only responsibility is getting from point A to point B.
Morning begins as usualup at five, cold shower, strong coffee. I glance at myself in the mirrorpale face, grey at the temples, lines that werent there a year and a half ago. Forty-two, but I look fifty.
The first client waits at the building entrancea bulky man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. He talks all the way to Heathrow about a trip to Manchester, his mother-in-law who drives his wife mad, and his overbearing boss. I nod, smile, but my thoughts drift elsewhere.
The day rolls ontrain station, shopping centre, office park, back to the station. By evening fatigue builds, yet I cant go home; the dispatcher hands me another job.
Nick, we need you from Riverbank to Greenwood Estate. Last one for today, the clients waiting.
I sigh, confirm the address on the GPS.
The client turns out to be a young woman with a little boy, about three or four years old, who whines and refuses to sit in the car.
Tommy, please, his mother pleads. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shouts. I want to go to Grandmas!
Well go to Grandma on Saturday, I promise. Right now we need to get home.
I wait patiently as they climb in. The ride promises to be tiringthe boy keeps whimpering, the mother looks exhausted.
Sorry, she says once she finally settles in the back seat. Its been a hard day.
No problem, I reply, turning on the meter. Greenwood Estate, Lipton Road, number 17, right?
Yes, thats right.
Traffic snarls longer than expecteda crash in the city centre holds us up for almost an hour. The boy gradually calms, eventually falling asleep on his mothers lap. She looks out the window, silent. I play soft music, careful not to wake him.
When we finally clear the jam, dusk has fallen. Light rain drizzles, puddles form on the road. I focus on the wheel, trying to ignore the throbbing headache.
Greenwood Estate sits on the suburbs edgenew builds, tall blocks, still empty of character. I rarely come here; the faceless concrete feels cold.
Turn right here, the woman says as we enter the courtyard. And the third entrance, please.
I obey, stopping at a plain seventeenstorey block.
Weve arrived, I say, switching off the engine. £4.20, please.
She pulls out a £5 note.
No change needed. Thank you for your patience.
Thanks for the generosity, I smile. May I help with the child?
She hands me the sleeping boy, then steps back.
Ill take him, she says. Are you sure? Maybe I should carry him to the flat?
No, well manage. My husbands at home, hell help.
I hold the child gently as she pays and gathers her bags. She thanks me again and heads toward the building. I step out, intending to drive away, but the rain makes the street slick and cold, and the child is still asleep. I wait until they disappear inside.
From the doorway I see a light on the third floor. The woman and her son stand at the entrance, then vanish behind the door. My eyes lock on a window where a faint glow illuminates a silhouette.
My heart skips, then pounds fast. I recognize the profile, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Ive seen it thousands of times.
Emma. My Emma. My wife, missing for a year and a half.
I cant remember how I left the car, crossed the courtyard, entered the block. I hear muffled voices, feel unseen gazes. All that matters is the third floor, the flat with the light.
The lift is out of ordersigns say under maintenance. I sprint up the stairs, breath ragged, reaching the third landing. Four doors line the hallway. Which one? I recall the window placement; counting from the left, its the second door. I pause, listening. Silence. My heartbeat sounds loud enough to echo down the corridor.
I press the buzzer with a shaking finger. A long, painful pause. Then footsteps. The lock clicks. The door opens.
A man in his forties, in houseslippers and a Tshirt, stands there, puzzled.
Can I help you? he asks.
I open my mouth, but no words come.
Who are you looking for? he asks, brow furrowed.
I Im looking for my wife. Emma Clarke.
His expression shiftssurprise turns to wariness.
Theres no Emma Clarke here, he says. Youve got the wrong address.
He moves to close the door, but I grip the handle.
Wait! I just saw her in the window. Im not crazy, I swear. Shes my wife, she disappeared a year and a half ago.
He hesitates, then the door swings wider. Behind him stands the woman I just delivered the child to, holding a sleeping boy.
Whats happening, Simon? she asks.
This man says he saw a woman in our window, Simon replies. He claims shes his missing wife.
The womans eyes widen.
Youre the taxi driver who brought us here! she exclaims. What are you doing?
I saw my wife in your window, I repeat, stubborn. Emma Clarke. About the same height as you, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above her right eyebrow.
Simon and the woman exchange looks that send a shiver down my spine.
Theres no Emma here, the woman says, voice trembling. Im Helen, my names Helen Parker. Im the mother.
Mother? I ask, leaning forward.
My mother, actually, she explains. She moved in with us a year ago after an accident.
May I see her? my voice cracks with desperation. Just for a minute. If its not her, Ill leave and never bother you again.
Simon looks ready to refuse, but Helen places a hand on his shoulder.
Simon, let him have a look. What do we have to lose?
Simon sighs, reluctant. Alright, but only a minute. And if its not you, you go.
They lead me to a small hallway, then to a closed door. Simon knocks, doesnt wait for an answer, pushes it open, and steps inside, closing the door behind him.
I stand, breath shallow, hearing muffled voices from the room. Finally the door opens.
A modest bedroom, neatly made, a nightstand, a few framed photos. In a chair by the window sits a woman, gazing out at the rain. She turns, and my breath catches.
Emma. Shes thinner, hair cut shorter than I remember, but the mole sits exactly where it should. A faint scar on her chin, a reminder of a childhood bike fall.
Emma, I whisper.
She looks at me, expression blank, as if shes meeting a stranger.
Im sorry, she says softly. Youve got the wrong person. My name is Helen.
Her voice is familiar yet different.
Emma, its me, Nick, I say, stepping forward, kneeling beside the chair. Your husband.
She frowns, a flicker of confusion crossing her eyes.
Simon? she asks, turning to the man. Whos this?
Simon steps forward. Everythings fine, mum. Hes a friend of Lucys.
Mum? I repeat, stunned. What? Who are you?
Helenno, Emmashakes her head. I dont know you. My name is Helen Parker. Im Lucys mother.
I stare at her, the details I know flooding back: the mole, the scar, the aversion to heights, the love of strawberry icecream, the hatred of chrysanthemums.
She touches her chin, feeling the scar.
Lucy enters, the child now absent, and looks at us with concern. Whats happening?
This man keeps calling me Emma, the woman says, panic rising. He says he knows me.
Simon grabs my arm. You need to leave, Nick. Shes not yours.
No! I shake him off. I wont leave until you explain why my wife lives here under another name, why she calls you soninlaw.
Simon laughs hollowly. We didnt do anything to her. We saved her.
Saved her? I shout. She vanished, I reported it the same day!
Maybe the information never got through, Simon says. Or the descriptions didnt match. We took her in when the hospital sent her out, no ID, no memory.
Lucy nods. The doctors said she might never remember.
Its amnesia after a head injury, I hear them say. She has no recollection of her name, address, nothing.
I stare at EmmaHelenwho suddenly whispers, North Bridge snow cold.
Lucy leans in. Did you see anything?
Helen clutches her head, trying to pull images from the fog. A white car a man rough I screamed.
I press, What happened after?
She shakes her head. I cant remember. I dont want to.
Lucy comforts her. Youre safe now.
I step forward, voice low. Helen, are you Emma? You look like her. If youre not, well let you stay. If you are, Ill take you home.
She looks at me, eyes wide, then down at the childs empty space. I I dont know.
Simon sighs. Shes been with us for a year. We love her.
I understand, I say, fighting the surge of anger and relief. I wont force anything. She can decide.
Lucy wipes a tear. Well give her time.
Simon nods. We wont involve the police, as long as you respect our wishes.
I take a deep breath. Alright. Ill wait. Ill be here when shes ready.
HelenEmma offers a faint smile. Maybe Id like to know you again.
The rain stops outside, and the sky clears enough to see a few stars. I feel a strange calm settle over me.
I get back into the cab, glance once more at the lit window on the third floor. A silhouette watches me, and I raise my hand in a quiet farewell.
Tomorrow will be a new day. A fresh start. A chance to rediscover a love that was lost.
First thing Ill do is call Inspector Margaret Jones and tell her not to close the file yetbecause sometimes you find what you thought was gone forever, even after a year and a half, even when hope seemed almost dead.
And maybe, just maybe, that accidental ride led me to the very place where the light flickered on the thirdfloor window.
