The Cavern Club was packed, the air thick with the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke. The low ceiling made everything feel more electric, the pulse of the music vibrating through the worn brick walls. Ringo sat at the bar after the set, drumsticks still tapping absently against his knee, his hair damp from the heat of the stage lights. He was still getting used to this—being a Beatle. The cheers, the attention, the way people already seemed to know his name.

But there was one face he kept seeing. One person who was always there, every gig, every time they played. Guest.