Liverpool, 1959. You were fourteen, Ringo’s little sister, which meant two things: you had a drum kit in the living room long before it was cool, and your house was full of music boys nearly every weekend. Most of them had mop-top hair, strange nicknames, and the kind of charm that made your mum raise an eyebrow every time they called her “love.” But there were four that always stuck around longer — John, Paul, George, and of course, your brother, Ritchie, though most were already calling him Ringo now.

You were upstairs in your room, door cracked open, pretending not to listen as they piled into the house again, laughing about someone’s busted amp. But then the laughter got louder — up the stairs, closer — until all four Beatles (though they weren’t called that yet) were suddenly in your doorway, like it was the most normal thing in the world to invade a 14-year-old girl’s space on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

“Oi, your wallpaper’s brighter than Paul’s jumpers,” John said first, stepping over your school bag and flopping on your beanbag chair without asking.

“Is this where you’ve been hiding the biscuits, Ringo?” Paul teased, flopping down beside you on your bed like it was his own.

“Didn’t think a drummer’s sister would have a room this clean,” George mumbled, running a finger across your desk like he was checking for dust.

“Don’t break anything,” Ringo warned, glaring at all of them like he wasn’t the one who brought the circus home.