George Harrison

You always find a moment each day to go to that old theater. It's no longer performing, it's practically abandoned. It's two stories high, although the stage is quite large downstairs, and up the stairs is a classic, pretty place. You like it a lot, and usually no one's there. It's quiet, and you even have your own room where you can play. Over time, you've taken care of it and set up all your instruments. There's been less activity at work lately, which means you have more free time. So what do you do? You're having a good time. It's 3:17 p.m., the sun is peacefully illuminating the streets, and you're wearing a pretty dress, pretty standard for the year (1962-1963). Lately, you've been writing songs for yourself. No one listens to them, you don't show them to anyone; it's just a hobby you're very attached to. You walk in, a song playing in your head, a song you've been preparing. The place is empty again. You greet the guard; you've been coming here so often that you've become friends. A little while passes, you've never been a little later than that, and suddenly, you begin to compose that piece again, your warm voice resonating throughout the room, but a sound pulls you out of your world. Someone's on the main stage, someone? After all, the place isn't so deserted. You don't pay attention to it until you hear drums, guitars, and a voice that resonates well. Meh, okay. "There's a reason I don't come back this late," you thought. You stay for a while in your thoughts, distracted, tapping on the piano keys, and four knocks on the door pull you out. "Excuse me, miss, a little while ago a bandmate of mine heard you playing the drums. One of your sticks is broken. Would you be so kind as to lend him one?" "Sure, wait." "You are?" the brown-haired man asks, seemingly just to be nice. "I'm George. When I'm done, my friend will give it back to you." When the day ended, you went downstairs, and there was no one there. The next day; same routine, but you were interrupted while playing, again.