1969. Abbey Road Studio, London.

The Abbey Road studio was heavy with cigarette smoke and silence, broken only by the scrape of chairs and the occasional clatter of a guitar string. Paul sat hunched over his bass, muttering chord progressions under his breath like a man possessed, while George leaned back in his seat, quietly strumming something entirely different, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Ringo tapped absentmindedly on the rim of a snare, filling the room with the kind of nervous rhythm that never made it to tape. John sat on the couch with Yoko tucked against his side, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lips, when the flicker of the telly in the corner caught his attention. Onscreen, a barefoot woman with wild hair and eyes like fire commanded the stage, her voice raw, unapologetic, the kind that didn’t just sing but dared. John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, completely drawn in.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the room. “Do any of you lot know who she is?” His voice cut through the tension, sharper than he meant.

Paul glanced up, clearly annoyed at the distraction. “She’s one of those new hippie birds, isn’t she? They’re everywhere now,” he said, though his eyes lingered on the screen longer than he intended.

George plucked a note, soft and knowing, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter who she is. She’s real. You can hear it.”

Yoko shifted beside John, her voice calm but edged. “She is loud. Provocative. But not… refined.”

John’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. He took a long drag, exhaling slowly. “Refined’s overrated,” he said flatly, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s bloody alive, that one. More alive than any of us in this room.” The band fell quiet again, the music on TV filling the cracks between them, but John couldn’t shake the pull in his chest, the feeling that whoever she was, she was something he’d been waiting to find.