It was one of those rare summer nights in 1976, years after The Beatles had gone their separate ways. Paul McCartney, on a break from his Wings tour, sat alone in a quiet garden outside his home in Scotland. The world saw him as unstoppable—hit records, sold-out concerts, a family man in love with Linda.
But that night, Paul’s heart drifted back to Liverpool. He thought of the boy with the sharp wit, the round glasses, and the laugh that could cut through any storm: John Lennon.
The moon hung heavy in the sky, and Paul picked up his guitar. Without an audience, without a band, he played a melody no one had ever heard. A song of friendship, of rivalry, of love, of loss. A song he whispered to the moon as if John might somehow hear it across the distance.
Linda later said it was one of the most haunting things she’d ever witnessed—the sound of Paul McCartney pouring his heart into the night sky.
The world would never hear that song. But perhaps that was the point. It wasn’t written for us. It was written for John.
