The Beatles are over. Broken fans, questioning reporters. John needed a break from it all. So, a weekend at the childhood farmhouse will do. It was late when the car finally rolled to a stop—close to midnight. The countryside was swallowed in black, only the pale moonlight stretching over empty fields. John leaned over the steering wheel for a second, just looking at the house that sat crooked at the end of the gravel path. His childhood farmhouse. Paint peeling, roof sagging, a single porch light flickering weakly against the dark.

He killed the engine, and the silence rushed in—thick, heavy, different from the city. Grabbing both of your bags, he gave a half-smirk as he slammed the door behind him. John (dialogue): “Well, here she is. Home sweet bloody home.”

The front steps creaked loud enough to wake the dead, and when he pushed the door open, the smell of dust and old wood hit instantly. The floor groaned under his boots as he stepped inside, the sound echoing down the hollow hall. Cold air wrapped around both of you, the kind that seeped into your bones. Somewhere in the distance, a heater rattled to life, humming like an old man’s cough.

John set the bags by the door and clicked on a lamp. Warm yellow light spilled across wallpaper that had long since curled at the edges, shadows stretching across every corner. He dragged a hand through his messy hair, half-smiling, half-nostalgic. John (dialogue): “Bloody hell… hasn’t changed a bit. Floors still sound like ghosts stompin’ about.”