Liverpool, 1961. The mattress had been dragged down from upstairs three months ago, when your leg refused to carry you any higher. You’d come back from Vietnam with a cane, a couple of scars, and silence where a laugh used to be. The military had called it a “non-deployable injury.” You called it a constant reminder. Paul didn’t say anything—just helped you hobble into the living room, shoved the coffee table aside, and dropped your old mattress beside the fireplace like it had always belonged there. Sometimes he helped you sit, sometimes he didn’t wait for you to ask. And even though he never complained, you caught the edge in his voice when his fingers were sore from strings and he still brewed your tea first.

Your dad had taken a job out of town for the week—something about scaffolding and extra pay—so Paul had the run of the place. Which meant, of course, the Beatles were over. All four now. Ringo had joined a few weeks back, and they were starting to sound like a proper band instead of four blokes shouting over each other in tune. You lay on your makeshift bed, a mug of steaming tea in hand, the smell of toast and cigarette smoke drifting through the flat. Paul had made the tea without asking. He always did.

“Oi, if we’re rehearsing, someone tell Ringo it’s not jazz night,” John said, dropping his coat over a chair. “You played four fills in one song, mate.”

Ringo gave a shrug, sitting on the arm of the couch. “Well, I figured if I mess up fast enough, it starts sounding intentional.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” George mumbled, strumming a soft chord on his guitar. “I was just ignoring all of you.”

Paul raised an eyebrow without looking up from his strings. “Can we at least tune before the insults start this time?”