London, March 1989
10:47 AM – Café Marigny, Notting Hill
It was raining, in that lazy London way—gentle, indecisive. A morning that neither promised nor delivered much. Except one thing.
Paul had come early. He always did, even now. Especially now.
The café was the kind of place only locals knew—Parisian-style, too many plants, slightly pretentious. It was where Lennon liked to meet people when he didn’t want to be John Lennon. Here, he could be just a bloke in round glasses who liked a good espresso.
Paul looked up from the menu as John slipped in, trench coat damp, hair messier than usual.
“Christ,” John said, shaking off the rain, “London in March still feels like Liverpool in February.”
Paul smiled. “At least Liverpool gave you a hug before it froze your arse.”
They hugged. It wasn’t awkward anymore. That tension—the one they carried around like a third member—had faded since last year’s surprise performance. But it hadn’t vanished. Not completely.
Life After the Broadcast
After the Together Again shockwave in 1988, they had agreed—maybe even promised—not to make it a permanent thing. Just one moment. A tribute to peace. A taste of what might still be, without diving back into the circus.
Each had returned to their own orbits:
- George had gone back to gardening and producing obscure Indian fusion records.
- Ringo had signed onto a Japanese tour with a new supergroup.
- Paul released a solo record. Easygoing stuff. Very Paul.
- John stayed quiet. Worked on an art book with Yoko. Dabbled in some home recordings. Spoke at the UN about nuclear disarmament. Avoided the media like it owed him money.
The Beatles weren’t back. They were just… friends again. Mostly.
The Coffee Conversation
“You hear what’s going on in Berlin?” John asked, sipping his double espresso.
Paul nodded. “East Germans protesting. Trying to cross over. It’s getting messy.”
“It’s getting loud,” John corrected. “Cracks showing in the wall. Maybe even in the Kremlin.”
Paul leaned in, eyebrow raised. “You’re thinking about going?”
John shrugged. “Was thinking about it. Yoko’s in Tokyo this week, and I’ve got this itch I can’t scratch.”
“Dangerous itch, that one.”
They both laughed. Then Paul turned serious.
“You thinking music?”
John nodded. “Maybe. Not politics, not preaching. Just being there. Singing something that cuts through all the barbed wire.”
Paul stirred his tea. “Not a Beatles thing?”
“Wouldn’t call it that,” John said. “More like… a Lennon-McCartney thing.”
Silence hovered for a moment, stretching like taffy between two men who knew each other too well.
Paul finally said, “Well, I’ve got that new piece I never finished. Could fit a verse about walls in there.”
John smirked. “You and your verses. Always so tidy.”
“You and your chaos. Always so loud.”
They Watched the World Change
A television above the café bar played footage from Berlin. Candlelit vigils. Young people hammering at the wall with fists, with dreams. Old women staring across concrete like it was an ocean. Lennon watched, quietly.
“Place is humming,” he said.
Paul leaned back. “You know… we could hum with it.”
John gave a sly grin. “Thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That we get a few amps, steal George for moral support, and sing ‘Revolution’ in front of the East German border patrol?”
John let out a low whistle. “Ballsy. Illegal. Possibly historic.”
They both sat for a moment, looking out the window as the rain turned to drizzle. A postman passed by. A child stomped in a puddle. The world kept moving.
Paul said, “Let’s do it.”
John nodded.
No management. No PR. Just the two of them. A guitar, a piano, a wall made of concrete and fear.
Later That Day
George called from Friar Park.
“You two are insane,” he said.
“That’s why it’ll work,” John replied.
George sighed, already defeated. “Fine. But I’m not singing ‘Back in the USSR.’”
The Whisper Becomes a Plan
Within a week, Lennon and McCartney had quietly reached out to a handful of Berlin-based organizers. The concept was simple: an impromptu peace concert near the Berlin Wall. Just a few songs. No banners. No Beatles branding. No flashy poster with mop-tops and nostalgia.
Just music—acoustic, unamplified, raw enough to carry over rubble.
The plan was met with skepticism at first. Then disbelief. Then wonder.
Would they really do it?
Would John Lennon and Paul McCartney—two of the most recognizable voices of the century—really walk up to the most dangerous fault line of the Cold War and sing?
No one could believe it.
Except the two men who, against all odds, had found their way back to the same table, in the same rain, watching the same world tremble—and deciding, once again, to do something about it.
What If: The Archive 
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