Prologue

PROLOGUE

IT WAS A quiet December night in New York City.

John Lennon had spent the day doing what he loved most. Recording music, being with Yoko, and talking about the future. He felt grounded. He was finally at peace. After years of chaos, fame, anger, and escape, he had found a new rhythm. It was slower, quieter, and finally his own.

That afternoon, he signed an autograph for a young fan. He smiled for a photo. He had no reason to be afraid.

Later that evening, he and Yoko walked home to the Dakota. There was no entourage. No screaming crowd. Just a man and the woman he had chosen to spend the rest of his life with. They crossed the sidewalk and stepped through the gate.

Then came the sound.

Four gunshots rang out.

In an instant, the city that never slept fell silent.

John Lennon died in the doorway of the only place he had ever truly called home. He did not die onstage. He did not die in a studio. He died as a husband. As a father. As a man who had finally stopped running.

When he fell, the world didn’t just lose a musician.

It lost a myth, a mirror, and a voice that had once echoed from every corner of the planet.

And something else broke that night. Not just a body. Not just a life. A dream.

But dreams aren’t like people. They don’t vanish so easily. They linger. They grow. They spread.

And some, like his, never really go quiet.