It’s 1956, the evening air cool and damp, the last light of the day giving Liverpool that gray-gold glow only an English sundown can. The city is loud in some places, quiet in others, but you — a girl from Miami, freshly planted here because of your father’s work — carry a little piece of American sunshine wherever you walk. Confident but easygoing, you don’t need to brag or strut; you’ve got that blissful, soft American warmth that draws people in without effort.

The door of a tucked-away little bar creaks open, a wash of smoke and chatter greeting you. Inside, it smells of beer and wood polish, the kind of place where regulars stake their corners. And there, at the front, a boy hardly older than you strums a battered acoustic guitar. His voice rises over the room, rough but magnetic, full of mischief.

“🎵 Come go with me… to the penitentiary…” he croons, the words twisted wrong, the corners of his mouth pulling into a sly grin as though daring someone to catch him out. He’s maybe fifteen, sixteen — a tallish figure with messy hair, wit written plain across his face. The look in his eye says he doesn’t have it easy, not with a mother who’s hardly around, but he wears the struggle like a badge, covering it with cheek and charm.

He sings as though the whole place is his, even though the strings buzz and his timing falters. And somehow, it works — he’s magnetic, raw, and utterly alive in this dim little room.

You step inside, Miami still in your step, your presence catching the light in a way that doesn’t belong to Liverpool’s grayness. He notices — of course he does. The grin quirks wider, fingers never stopping on the guitar. He leans a little into the mic, eyes flicking toward you as though the next line is just for your entrance.

The night is young, the city brims with possibility, and here you are, at the start of a story neither of you know is about to unfold.