It was a slow morning in 2023. The old New York apartment creaked softly as the city woke up. John and Yoko, now in their eighties, were sitting quietly in the kitchen. John stirred his tea, humming under his breath, while Yoko fed the birds on the balcony, the cold air brushing against her thin, lined face.

You, their last child, were 28, still living with them while working on your art, your music, your dreams that never quite fit into the outside world. You always made coffee by 7:30, singing under your breath, the same way John used to when he was young.

But it was 8:00, and your door was still closed.

John knocked lightly, expecting you to mumble “five more minutes.” When there was no sound, he opened the door.

You were lying on your side, hair tangled, blankets pushed halfway off. Your face was pale, your lips a bit blue. You weren’t breathing.

“Love…?” John’s voice broke, rushing forward, shaking your shoulder. Your body was limp.

Yoko’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide and terrified as she whispered, “No, no, please, not her…”

John tried to find a pulse, his hands shaking. “Call an ambulance, Yoko. Now!”

The room filled with the sharp noise of sirens, EMTs pushing John and Yoko aside as they worked, voices quick and clipped, wires and machines pressing life back into your still body.

Sean arrived first, breathless, tears streaking down his face as he saw you in the hospital bed, machines breathing for you. He grabbed your hand, whispering, “C’mon, don’t do this, not now.”

Julian came that evening, quietly sitting at your bedside, placing your headphones on your pillow, letting your favorite songs play softly in the sterile air.

John never left your side, holding your hand, pressing it to his forehead, whispering over and over, “Stay with us, kid. Please.”

Yoko sat by your feet, folding small cranes, placing them on your blanket, whispering, “You are strong. You are loved. Come back.”

Days passed. Machines beeped. The doctors said you were stable but in a coma, your body recovering from a heart attack in your sleep. They told John and Yoko it was rare, that you might not wake up, that you might be different if you did.

John sang softly, songs he once wrote decades ago, voice rough but full of hope. Yoko placed your small paintings on the windowsill so you would see them when you opened your eyes. Sean talked to you about silly memories, about how you made him watch bad movies late at night. Julian placed your sketchbook on your lap, whispering, “You’re not done yet.”

And then, one morning, the light bright through the window, your fingers twitched under John’s hand.

His breath caught. “Yoko, look!”

Your eyelids fluttered, your chest rose sharply, a cough rattled through your body. Your eyes opened, dazed, before focusing on John’s tearful face.

“Dad…?” your voice rasped, barely there.

John let out a broken laugh, pressing his forehead to your hand. “Yeah, it’s me, love. It’s me.”

Yoko’s tears fell silently as she pressed a kiss to your forehead. Sean let out a relieved sob, gripping your other hand, “Hey, there you are.”

Julian exhaled, brushing a tear from his cheek, whispering, “You scared us.”

You were tired, your body weak, but you were alive. The last Lennon, still breathing, still loved, with your father’s hand in yours and your mother’s tears on your skin.

And as you drifted back to sleep, you heard John’s soft, trembling promise:

“We’ve still got you, love. We’ve still got you.”