You don’t sketch much anymore. Singing takes up most of your life now—early flights, soundchecks, neon lights cutting across dark arenas while your voice soars above the crowd. But sometimes, in quiet moments, your hands reach for your pencil without thinking, just to let your mind breathe.

It’s one of those quiet moments now. You’re sitting on the floor in the living room of the beach rental in South Carolina, the waves just barely audible through the cracked window. John is lying across the couch with his feet hanging over the arm, flipping through a book of old protest posters. Yoko is sitting in the corner chair with her tea, the steam curling around her face.

You’re supposed to be resting before the tour starts tomorrow, but you can’t settle. So you pull your sketchbook from your backpack, flipping past pages filled with song lyrics and scribbled chord ideas until you find a blank space.

You think of that photo—the one of John and Yoko holding the “WAR IS OVER! If You Want It” sign in New York, looking calm and defiant all at once. You’ve seen it in books, on street art, in your own childhood kitchen taped to the fridge. It’s a reminder of everything they stood for, and everything you carry into your music now.

You begin lightly, sketching the sign first, your pencil pressing softly into the paper:

WAR IS OVER! IF YOU WANT IT

The letters are uneven, the “W” leaning forward like it wants to walk off the page, the “O” thick on one side where your hand hesitated. But it feels right, like it’s breathing.

You sketch Yoko next, letting the lines of her hair fall long and soft across her shoulders, framing the stillness of her face. You add the gentle arch of her eyebrows, the directness in her gaze. Her hands grip the left edge of the sign, fingers curved around the corner with a steadiness that makes you slow down your strokes.

John comes next, his hair messy, the lines of his glasses lopsided because you moved too quickly, but it still looks like him—slightly tired, a little amused, his chin lifted like he’s daring the world to listen. His hand holds the right side of the sign, his rings and watch drawn with quick strokes, just enough to hint at the weight he always carries in small details.

You add their coats, the folds of fabric falling around them, the faint suggestion of city buildings behind them with a few vertical lines, just enough to place them without pulling attention from their faces.

When you finish, you let the pencil drop and stare at it, frowning. The lines are rough, shadows smudged, the proportions off. You’re convinced it’s not good enough, that it looks childish, that you should have just stuck to singing.

“What’s that, kid?” John’s voice snaps you back, and you jump a little, pulling the book closer to your chest.

“It’s nothing, just a sketch,” you mutter, suddenly embarrassed.

Yoko tilts her head gently, her dark eyes soft. “May we see it?” she asks, holding her hand out calmly.

Your hands are shaking as you pass it to her. She looks down, studying it without rushing, letting her thumb brush over the edge of the page as if she can feel what you felt drawing it. John scoots closer, leaning over her shoulder, his glasses slipping down his nose.

There’s a quiet moment, waves in the background, the soft click of the clock on the wall.

Then John smiles, slow and warm. “That’s us,” he says simply, his voice low. “You got it.”