No one in the cathedral was prepared for what came next.

Outside, the gray skies over Liverpool hung heavy, like the world itself was mourning. Inside the vast Gothic cathedral, the air was thick with silence — not the kind born of reverence, but of disbelief. The kind of silence that follows the sudden end of a legend. John Winston Lennon — the rebel, the poet, the dreamer — was gone. And even though the world had known loss before, this felt different. This was personal.

The pews were lined with faces worn by grief: old friends, estranged collaborators, wide-eyed fans somehow lucky enough to be there. George Harrison sat stiffly, his hands clenched in his lap. Ringo Starr wiped a tear beneath his dark sunglasses. Sean Lennon, barely a teenager, leaned into his mother’s shoulder, while Yoko Ono sat frozen — pale, unreadable.

Then… Paul stood up.

He didn’t need to be introduced. Everyone knew who he was. For decades, he had been the melodic heart of The Beatles, the balancing force to John’s storm. But in that moment, he wasn’t a rock god. He wasn’t a knighted cultural icon. He was just a man — grieving, guilt-ridden, and carrying the weight of things he never got to say.

He stepped forward slowly, clutching his old acoustic guitar like a relic from another life. His shoulders hunched as he reached the front of the cathedral. For a moment, he just stood there, staring out — not at the crowd, but at something far away. Something only he could see.

Then, he strummed the first fragile chord of “Here Today.”

The moment the sound rang out, it was like time stopped.

The song, written two years after John’s actual death in real life, was a letter Paul never got to send. But now, it became something more. A eulogy. A final confession. A bridge across the years of fame, bitterness, and distance.

His voice trembled as he sang the first lines.
“And if I said I really knew you well / What would your answer be…”
And then he paused.

The cathedral was deathly still. Paul looked down at the strings, swallowed hard, and whispered, “I should’ve told you more… when you were still here.”

A collective breath caught in the room. Even the stained glass seemed dimmer in that moment.

The song continued, each lyric landing like a stone in water. Memories of their first meeting, the early days in Hamburg, their rise from scrappy Liverpool lads to world-changing icons — all of it poured through Paul’s shaking voice.

This wasn’t performance. This was a man speaking to a friend who wasn’t there anymore.

And it broke people.

Yoko Ono, normally a fortress of restraint, began to weep. Not quietly. Not politely. But with the kind of sorrow that comes from watching someone capture the pain you’ve been too numb to articulate. Sean clutched her hand, his small frame shaking with sobs. Even the most stoic faces in the crowd had given in. Eyes welled. Shoulders trembled. This wasn’t just the loss of a musician — it was the closing chapter of a bond that had once helped reshape the world.

Paul didn’t sing the song with polish. His voice cracked. He missed a note. His hands faltered. But no one cared. Because the beauty wasn’t in perfection — it was in the rawness. The humanity. The vulnerability of a man who once seemed untouchable now brought to his knees by love and regret.

As he reached the final lines —
“And if I say I really loved you / And was glad you came along…” —
he closed his eyes.

Then came the whisper, almost inaudible:
“I still do, John.”

When the last chord faded, the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of memory, of longing, of forgiveness. There was no applause. No movement. Just the echo of a goodbye that had taken a lifetime to speak.

For decades, fans had speculated about the rift between John and Paul. About who broke up The Beatles. About the letters, the jabs in interviews, the tension behind the melodies. But in that cathedral, none of that mattered anymore. Because the truth had always been simpler — they were brothers. Soulmates in song. Two sides of a coin that would never truly be whole without the other.

And Paul, finally, had said the words.

Later, outside the cathedral, people stood in the drizzle, unsure whether to speak. Reporters had tears in their eyes. Elderly fans clutched vintage vinyl records to their chests like keepsakes. Even those too young to remember Beatlemania understood they had witnessed something sacred.

In a quiet moment near the altar, Paul lingered alone, still holding his guitar. George approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. No words were exchanged. There was nothing left to say. Paul had said it all.

One final time.

In the only way he knew how.