A Letter From Berlin

It was one of those perfect summer evenings in Yorkshire—the kind where the sun starts to dip low, painting everything golden. Ryan was sitting on the beach, watching his dog Milo chase after the ball for what felt like the hundredth time. His shoulders were aching from all the throwing, but his dog didn’t care—he was ready for more.

One last throw, Ryan thought, gathering the strength to toss it as far as he could. But when his dog returned, he wasn’t carrying the ball. Instead, there was something else—something odd. A bottle. An old glass bottle, the kind you’d see in a pirate movie, with a piece of paper rolled up inside it.

Curious, but still a little rushed, Ryan opened the bottle, pulled out the paper, and squinted at the words. It was written in German. Not exactly what he had in mind for a relaxing evening.

"Well, I’ll deal with this later," he whispered, popping the paper back into the bottle and tossing it into his bag. He needed to get home and prepare for the Monday.

Days passed, and the bottle sat forgotten on a bookshelf in his living room. It became just another piece of decoration, one of those things you glance at but never really think about. Ryan went about his routine, focused on his busy life, until one evening, as he was preparing for a work trip to Germany, the bottle caught his eye again.

"Why not?" he thought, pulling it down. The letter still inside, now seemed like an odd little relic of some forgotten past. He was headed to Berlin for a work trip anyway, so maybe he could get around to figuring out what the letter said in his free time. He tossed it into his bag, figuring it could be a fun little distraction at the airport.

On the day of his flight, he found himself in the airport with some time to kill before boarding. Grabbing his laptop, he opened the letter again, determined to finally translate it. As the words appeared on his screen, he felt his stomach tighten. The letter was from a 13-year-old girl named Anneliese, written back in 1942. She poured out her heart, hoping the letter would reach her father, who had gone off to war and never returned. Her words were full of hope and longing. She didn’t know if he was alive, but she couldn’t let go of the idea that he might somehow get this letter and come home. At the end of the letter, there was an address.

Ryan's curiosity deepened. That address...google maps showed it was in a small village just outside Berlin. Without thinking twice, he decided to change his itinerary. He was going to find this place. He was going to find Anneliese’s family. What were the chances that anyone still lived there? He needed to know.

A few days later, he found himself on a train, heading toward Gerlachsdorf, a tiny village tucked away in the German countryside. There were no tourists, no signs pointing him in the right direction. The place felt forgotten like it was stuck in time.

He followed the directions he had got, asking around, until he finally reached a small vineyard. His heart started racing. He was close—he could feel it.

There, in the distance, he spotted the house from the letter’s address. The sun was setting behind it, casting long shadows over the yard. He quickened his pace, his legs aching, but he didn’t care. Something told him he needed to reach this house, needed to see who lived there.

When he got to the door, it was wide open. He stepped inside cautiously, and an older man appeared in the hallway, speaking to him rapidly in German.

“No German,” Ryan said, his mind racing. The older farm worker nodded but didn’t say anything more. Then, out of nowhere, a younger guy, maybe in his twenties, stepped out from another room.

As soon as the young man saw Ryan, his face froze. His eyes went wide like he had seen a ghost. Ryan paused, confused. Was this a German thing? A surprise? But no, this was different.

“Can I help you?” the young man asked, his voice shaky, speaking in English with a thick German accent.

Ryan explained the story—about the letter, the bottle, the address. The young man’s hands trembled as he snatched the letter from Ryan. Without saying a word, he turned and motioned for Ryan to follow him.

Ryan couldn’t help but run through all the possibilities in his mind. Is he taking me to Anneliese? Is she even alive? What am I walking into?

They walked through the house, the floorboards creaking underfoot. The young man stopped in front of a room, his face growing more serious. He opened the door slowly and called out in a soft voice, “Oma, Schlafst du"?”(Grandma ,are you sleeping?)

Inside, an old woman sat in a rocking chair, knitting. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of something sweet. Ryan stood still, unsure of what was happening, as the young man stepped forward.

And then—Ryan's heart stopped. The old woman looked up, and her eyes locked on him with a sudden, sharp intensity. She stood up too quickly, her walking stick clattering to the floor, and ran toward him. Her hands shook as she reached out.

Ryan was frozen in place, unable to make sense of the moment. He couldn’t understand what was happening—until he glanced around the room.

His eyes landed on a photograph hanging on the wall. The photo was old, black-and-white, but the man in the picture... Ryan felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.

It was his face.

There was no mistaking it. The man in the picture looked exactly like him.

His heart hammered in his chest as the old woman gasped. Tears filled her eyes as she stepped toward him, her hands trembling. She reached out and gripped him in a fierce hug.

Ryan barely knew how to react. He looked at the young man, who was staring at him in shock. The man’s voice was barely a whisper, “This is… your daughter, isn’t it?”

Ryan stood there, breathless. He had no words, no explanation. How could this be real?

The old woman, still clutching him, started to speak in German, but Ryan couldn’t understand a word. She pointed to the photo, and then to him. Her face twisted in disbelief, the tears flowing freely now.

And that’s when it hit him. The letter. The address. The photo. It was all coming together in a way he couldn’t comprehend.

It felt like fate. He had found her father, the man she’d written to in 1942. And somehow, he—Ryan—was the one to deliver the letter. The one to reunite this woman with her long-lost memories of the man she thought she’d never see again.

He finally managed to speak, his voice shaking. “I don’t know how this happened… but I think I’m the one you’ve been waiting for.”

The woman’s sobs were the only answer. At that moment, everything else fell away. The mystery of the letter, the bottle, the address—it all made sense. It was a story that had been waiting to be told for decades, and Ryan had just become a part of it.