It was the night before Glastonbury. Paul McCartney, now in his 80s, sat alone in his dressing room, surrounded by silence that only legends know. The crew had gone home. The lights were dimmed. Tomorrow, he’d step onto the Pyramid Stage again — perhaps for the last time.
He wasn’t nervous. He’d played in front of millions. But something tugged at him. A feeling. An ache. A whisper from somewhere long ago. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
And then — the dream.
Paul was sitting on an old wooden bench, the kind they used to loiter on as boys in Liverpool. The street around him was quiet, bathed in late afternoon sunlight. Then came the footsteps. Familiar. Soft. And there he was — John Lennon. Long hair, round glasses, eyes filled with that same troublemaking spark.
“You’re late,” John said, grinning.
Paul laughed. “You always did make me wait.”
They sat together for a moment, saying nothing. Just listening to the wind rustle the leaves.
Then John turned. “Sing that one, Paul.”
“Which one?”
John gave him that look. “You know which. But this time, don’t change the words.”
Paul frowned. “Why?”
“Because they still matter. Maybe more now than ever.”
The dream faded. Paul woke with a start. It was 4:17 AM. His heart was pounding. He reached for his old leather notebook — the one he hadn’t opened in years — and there it was. A line he and John had once scribbled in the margins of some forgotten page:
“There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.”
The next day, the sun dipped behind the horizon as the festival crowd swelled. Over 200,000 people had come — many expecting the usual hits, the singalongs, the grand farewell.
But Paul had something else planned.
After playing “Hey Jude,” the lights dimmed. A hush fell. And then, without warning, the opening chords of “All You Need Is Love” rang out. No remix. No modern twist. Just the song — raw, honest, and untouched since the days of peace and protest.
People froze. Some gasped. It was the first time Paul had performed the song live since John’s death.
His voice trembled at first, but grew stronger with each verse. And when the crowd joined in, something changed. The night grew softer. The stars seemed to lean in.
And then it happened.
As Paul sang the final refrain, “All you need is love, love… love is all you need,” many swore they heard something — someone — singing with him. A harmony, clear and high, drifting through the night.
It wasn’t on the backing track. It wasn’t a trick.
Some said it came from the speakers. Others said it came from the wind.
But those closest to the stage — the old fans, the ones who remembered the rooftop concert, the last interview, the heartbreak of December 1980 — they just closed their eyes… and smiled.
Later that night, Paul sat on the edge of his hotel bed, guitar in hand, notebook in lap. He whispered a thank-you to the air and wrote down one last line beneath the one he and John had once shared.
“Thanks for the letter, mate. I got it.”
And somewhere, maybe on an old bench in Liverpool or just beyond the edge of dreams, John Lennon grinned — and disappeared into the wind.
