𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓛𝓲𝓯𝓮 𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓐𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓨𝓸𝓾

Chapter III

Paul searched through his vinyl records, hoping to unearth some clue about The Beatles. His heart was pounding as his trembling hands flipped through the album covers. Nothing seemed to match what he was looking for. Suddenly, as he moved an old jazz vinyl, several sheets slipped out of a sleeve, falling in disarray on the floor. Intrigued, he squatted to pick them up. He frowned as he scanned them: the handwriting was indeed his, yet the words written were completely foreign to him. They appeared to be song lyrics, interspersed here and there with chord names. But what puzzled him the most was the signature adorning each page: Lennon-McCartney. This name combination froze him in place. His own name, linked to that of the mysterious man who haunted his dreams and who had seemed so real on television.

He tried to gather his thoughts. So, he wrote songs with this John Lennon? The idea seemed unbelievable to him. He tried to hum the lyrics, to mentally play the indicated chords, but nothing came to him. Every note, every word, was alien to him. And yet, this handwriting was unmistakably his. How could this be possible? Paul felt both fascinated and frightened by this discovery. Each new revelation plunged him deeper into an abyss of confusion. He needed to find answers, to understand what was happening to him. He sensed that the key to this mystery lay in these lyrics, written with John.

He decided to search his house, to see if he could find new things related to this part of himself of which he had no memory. An hour or two after he had started, he noticed that one of his cupboards was oddly placed. Dust rose in a fine cloud as Paul slowly moved the cupboard, revealing a mysterious door hidden behind it. His hands trembled slightly, torn between apprehension and excitement. He paused for a moment, catching his breath before grabbing the handle and pushing the door open. The interior was bathed in a dim light, emanating from a flickering bulb overhead. He discovered an impeccably organised dressing room, filled with neatly arranged suits, some with psychedelic patterns that seemed straight out of another world. Several pairs of shoes were lined up on the floor, including some looking live Chelsea boots, which Paul vaguely felt he had seen somewhere before.

But it was the instrument hanging on the wall that immediately caught his attention. He couldn't name it, but all he knew was that it was a bass, yet shaped like a violin. Paul stood agape, staring at the instrument with a mix of incredulity and wonder. He slowly approached, extending his hand to touch the strings. The contact of his fingers on the strings elicited a strange sensation, like a distant echo. It was both familiar and foreign. Paul felt as if he was facing a fragment of a forgotten past, a life he didn't recognise as his own. He gently took the bass and sat down on a chair, trying to play it. His fingers moved almost instinctively along the neck, producing melodies he didn't remember learning. Yet, each note resonated within him, awakening buried emotions. Paul was completely lost. How could he have been unaware of the existence of this hidden space? And why was this bass both so familiar and so foreign to him? He felt increasingly engulfed by this mystery, determined to uncover the truth. But first, he had to try to understand this bass, this object that seemed to be the link between him and a life he didn't recognise.

The notes of the bass were still vibrating in the air when Paul suddenly felt a different atmosphere envelop him. The subdued lighting of the dressing room gave way to the harsher brightness typical of studio neon lights. The muffled sounds of the room now mingled with the dull, rhythmic noises of instruments and voices warming up. The slightly annoyed voice that brought him back to reality was familiar, though Paul still couldn't attach it to a specific face. However, as his eyes adjusted to the light, the silhouette sitting across from him became clearer. It was him, John, with his rectangular glasses and hair falling in a fringe over his forehead.

"Paul, how many times do I have to tell you to stop getting lost in your thoughts? We've got an album to finish!" John scolded him.

Paul blinked several times, trying to regain his composure. The contrast between the recording studio and his home was striking. He wanted to respond, to ask for explanations, but the words wouldn't come out. He rubbed his temples, trying to dispel the confusion engulfing him.

"John? Where are we?" he murmured in a hesitant voice.

But as John opened his mouth to respond, the scenery began to fade away. The studio walls blurred, the sounds faded, and Paul found himself back in the secret dressing room, sitting with the bass on his lap. Everything was silent. Paul took a deep breath, his heart pounding. These hallucinations, or memories, were becoming increasingly disturbing. He felt as if he was being torn between two worlds, two lives, without understanding which was real. He felt lost, split between reality and a mysterious past he couldn't grasp.