It’s 1984, and the city hums outside, but in this moment, it’s quiet. John paces the small clinic room in his old denim jacket, his hair tied back loosely, glancing at the ultrasound machine like it’s a spaceship from the future.

He left Yoko years ago, quietly, without a war, just two people letting each other go. You didn’t replace her—you simply became something different. You didn’t plan to become a family, but you are one now. You, John, Julian (who just turned 21), and little Sean, who is almost 9, giggling in the hallway, counting tiles on the floor.

The room smells like warm plastic and printer paper as you lie back, shirt lifted, gel cold and shocking on your stomach. The technician smiles and adjusts the probe, moving it across your skin, and the screen flickers—a grainy black-and-white world blinking into existence.

John freezes when a small, quick thump-thump-thump-thump crackles out of the machine.

“What’s that?” he whispers, voice rough.

“That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” the technician says softly.

John’s eyes widen, the way they did the first time Sean called him “Daddy” after a nightmare. His hand comes to your shoulder, then your hair, then your hand, squeezing it, grounding himself as the rhythm continues. The heartbeat is faster than yours, a little drummer inside you, pulsing with life, each beat like a promise that tomorrow is coming.

The screen shows a tiny, curved shape, like a comma floating in the darkness, with a flicker at its center.

“Look, Johnny,” you whisper, your voice trembling, “there they are.”

John’s tears slip before he can stop them, wetting the edge of your hair as he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath shakes as he laughs softly, looking back at the screen.

“Bloody hell, that’s really them, innit?” he murmurs, smiling so wide it hurts.

“Healthy and strong,” the technician confirms, measuring the heartbeat rate—around 160 beats per minute, so fast it sounds like a hummingbird, like life refusing to be quiet. The technician prints out the photo, handing it to John. He holds it with shaking fingers, studying the small blur with a father’s awe.

Sean peeks into the room, wide-eyed. “Is that my baby brother or sister?”

“Yeah, mate,” John says, kneeling down, letting Sean climb onto his knee to look at the picture. Julian comes in quietly behind, hands in his jacket pockets, but his eyes are soft as he sees his dad smiling, alive, and present.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Julian jokes, though his voice is warm.

John ruffles his hair. “Neither did you, Jules, and look how you turned out.”

You laugh, wiping your eyes, and the room feels warm despite the humming machines. John kisses your temple, pressing the photo to your chest for a moment before tucking it carefully into his wallet.

That night, in your small New York apartment, John plays soft chords on the acoustic while Sean hums along, Julian tapping a gentle rhythm on the table. John’s eyes flicker to your belly, where life is beating quietly, steadily, the echo of that fast heartbeat ringing in all of you.

“Gonna write them a song,” John says softly, the night lights of the city flickering behind him. “Before they even get here. So they know they’re loved.”

And in 1984, with the world still messy and uncertain, you all sit together, taking care of each other, waiting for this small, steady heartbeat to grow, a new Lennon promise, softly blooming in the warmth of your home.