Paul Mccartney 🪲 #32

1980
It is December 9th. Nearly twelve hours have passed since the phone call, since the news reached every newspaper and radio station. John has passed away.
The house is in a silence like never before. The children keep their distance, sensing something too intense to express in words. Their usual laughter has turned into whispers, their small steps silent, as if the air itself demanded stillness. Outside, the sky looms gray and frigid, with a cold that seeps into the bones.
Paul hasn't said much since the morning. Now he is sitting in the living room, hunched over on the sofa, staring fixedly at the dying fire. He rests his elbows on his knees, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders tense, as if trying to contain the weight pressing down on him. Every now and then, his fingers twitch, as if he were playing an invisible bass line, a melody that only he can hear.
The clock ticks loudly in the silence. The midnight bells chime.
Until he received a call from his beloved wife Linda