It’s 1964 in London, the West End alive with brilliance as taxis and carriages line the street outside, the marquee of the theater glowing against the night sky. Inside, the house is grand—crystal chandeliers shimmer overhead, gilt balconies curve like open arms, and red velvet seats are filled with London’s finest, eager for the evening’s performance of The Sound of Music. In the very front, in the most coveted row, four familiar silhouettes sit side by side: John, Paul, George, and Ringo, sharp in tailored suits, their presence alone stirring murmurs through the crowd.

The orchestra swells, violins sighing into the warm air, and you, just sixteen, step onto the stage as Maria. The spotlight blooms across you, catching the pale sweep of your costume and the earnest light in your eyes. When you begin “My Favorite Things,” your voice rises with clarity—pure, rich, astonishingly mature for someone so young. It pours across the theater like spun silk, playful yet commanding, carrying every note to the farthest balcony. The audience leans forward in reverent silence, a stillness so complete it feels like the world itself has paused.

In the front row, even The Beatles are captured in the spell.

Paul leans in, whispering almost reverently, “Bloody hell, she’s brilliant, isn’t she?”

John smirks faintly, though his gaze never strays from you. “A voice like that at sixteen… it’s unreal.”

George tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as though studying something rare. His whisper is low, almost confessional. “She makes the whole place disappear, doesn’t she?”

Ringo, wide-eyed, lets out a hushed chuckle. “Maria’s never been sung like that.”

Your final note lingers, strong and pure, echoing high in the rafters before fading into the hush of the hall. The air feels charged, almost sacred. And for once, the four young men who make the whole world scream sit utterly still, humbled in their seats, as though they too had come only to witness the birth of something luminous.