Paul dreamt of Linda. He dreamed that he and Linda were together, his arm looped around her waist and her hands holding his face. They were together and they were dancing on a cloud. In the distance there was a voice, a voice most familiar to Paul. For a moment he turned to search for it, but when he found that there was no one there he turned back to Linda. He held her closer, loved her harder, willed this dance to never end. Still, there was a voice in the distance, calling his name; it was a voice he had longed for, he was sure of it. But Linda was there, in his arms, so why should he go searching elsewhere?

A voice that he did not recognize spoke his name loudly and Paul jumped in great fright, jolting himself awake.   

The instant Paul woke up, he knew something was wrong. He could feel it.

He didn't open his eyes, he just laid in bed and focused on what was off. He felt...different. Like it was easier to move, right down to his fingers. He began to wiggle about in bed and it just felt different.

Paul pulled his blanket over his head, thinking that maybe this was the in between place that lies in the middle of wakefulness and sleep. He thought that maybe, if he just tried very hard to go back to sleep, he could dance with Linda for a little while longer before he had to get up and start his day.

But then, the bed didn't feel quite right either. It wasn't nearly as soft as the one he had fallen asleep upon in his hotel room in Chicago. The pillow was flatter. The blankets were much thinner and they were scratchier against his face.

I've got to open my eyes.... He thought, but he didn't do it right away. He was terrified of what he might find if he did.

It was a several minutes before Paul worked up the nerve to open his eyes, but at long last he did open his eyes. He blinked for a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight pouring in through the window beside his bed.

This was definitely not the room he'd fallen asleep in, that became immediately clear. He blinked hard, wanting to make absolutely sure that he wasn't just seeing things. He rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and looked again, and indeed, his brain was not making up any of what he was seeing. This room, it was smaller... the bed was smaller. The wallpaper was cream colored and peeling, the floorboards looked old. The dresser and the bedside table didn't the wood that the bed was made out of. 

This, he realized with a strange blend of horror and amazement brewing within him, was Paul's childhood bedroom. This was the bedroom he'd grown up in. In Liverpool, in the house where he was raised.

Paul threw the covers back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rose to his feet and bounded across the room. The floorboards creaked beneath his heavy footfall as he strode to the mirror that was mounted over his dresser. He couldn't suppress the shriek that escaped him when he stared into his own eyes, and he stumbled backward with a hand slapped over his racing heart.

He stood there for a minute or two, averted his gaze from the mirror, trying to catch his breath. When his breathing had finally leveled out, he looked up very slowly and he met his own gaze in the mirror once more. He considered his reflection cautiously.

These clothes that he could see himself wearing in the mirror were not the same ones he had gone to sleep in the night before, but he recognized the blue striped pajamas.     His clothes definitely weren't the ones he'd gone to sleep in, but he recognized the blue striped pajamas that were the same sort he always wore to bed for years and years, even for a while into adulthood.

He stared into the mirror for a long while, just thinking... What the hell is going on? How did I get here?

Slowly, Paul lifted a shaking hand to his cheek. He ran trembling fingers across his face, watching himself in the mirror all the while. It was hard to believe, certainly, but the evidence was there, in the mirror. He was — he was —

Paul could hear movement coming from beneath him. He could hear the sound of voices and shuffling feet coming from downstairs. He thought that it must be his dad and his brother, getting ready for the day. That seemed like the most logical assumption, anyway.

I should go investigate, he thought, then looked down at his clothes. But perhaps not in my pajamas. I suppose I'll have to get dressed....

He opened one of the dresser drawers and began rifling through the clothes. Eventually he settled on an outfit.

When he was dressed and his hair was brushed and he was thinking, My god, I'm a teenager again, aren't I!, he decided that he was ready as he ever would be and he walked out of the room, wondering at what a strange dream this was. Down the stairs he went and into the kitchen that he could still remember so well, and there, sitting at the table, was his younger brother and...

 "Dad," Paul breathed.

"Oh, Paul, you're up!" Jim McCartney beamed. "I was going to wake you soon and make you eat some breakfast. You know, son, you're overworking yourself with that band of yours and I want you to do what you love but I also want you to take care of yourself and — Paul? What are you doing?"

Paul had strode over to his father and wrapped his arms tightly around the man. "I just... I love you, Dad, okay?"

"Uh, I love you, too, Paul." Jim hugged his son then let go of him and after a few seconds Paul let go, too. "Is everything alright, son?"

"Yeah, everything is fine." Paul nodded and grinned at his father, blinking back tears.

"If nothing is wrong then what the hell has got you acting like a bloody girl?" Mike raised his eyebrows and took a bite of his eggs.

"Mike." Jim scowled, then looked back to Paul with a worried expression. 

Paul couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge Mike's comment. He just couldn't believe that he was standing in his home, with his father! 

"Paul, you are alright, aren't you?" Jim asked. "I mean to say, are you quite certain that you're alright?"

"Yeah, Dad." Paul nodded and laughed. "I'm fine. Really, I am. I just feel like I don't tell you that I love you enough...and I need you to know that I do. Love you. So much."

"I do know that." Jim put a hand on his eldest son's shoulder. "And I love you, both of you. Now, as long as everything is fine — ?"

Paul nodded again and smiled reassuringly.

"Good," Jim said and he nodded firmly. "Well, in that case, I am off to work. Come along, Mike, or you'll be late for school. Goodbye, Paul." He folded up his newspaper and laid it down on the kitchen table, then turned and headed for the door.

"Bye, Dad." Paul smiled. "Bye, Mike."

Mike looked at Paul uncertainly but just rolled his eyes and gave his brother a small smile. "See you later, Paulie. Try being less weird later, yeah?"

Paul slapped the back of his brother's head. "Jerk," he huffed, but he was still grinning all the same.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Mike said and followed Jim out of the kitchen.

Paul stood in the kitchen and listened to the front door being shut, the sound of the car starting up out in the driveway and pulling away. He listened to the car driving away from the house until it could no longer be heard and the house was silent.

"I'm home," Paul whispered aloud to himself, smiling. He began wandering about the house and everything was exactly as he remembered it. It was lovely and perfect. It was home! He never wanted to leave again, but he was terribly afraid that this was all some wonderful dream. It had to be a dream, and if it was a dream then Paul knew that it was only a matter of time before he woke up and all of this went away. He figured he should enjoy it while it lasted.

Paul went back to the kitchen, made some toast for breakfast and poured himself some orange juice, and sat down to eat. He picked up the newspaper that his dad had set down and unfolded it. He looked for the date as he took a sip of his juice. When he found it, he quite nearly spit out his drink.

May 24, 1961

That would mean that the band had already gone to Hamburg!

Paul sat there shaking his head and breathing deeply. This whole situation was downright insane. He was just plain confused as to how it had happened — although he had to admit, he was kind of enjoying every second of it so far.

It's a dream, though, Paul thought to himself sternly. Must be a dream. 

When Paul was done with his breakfast, he folded the paper and left it on the table like his dad had, then he washed his plate and his glass and put them away in their proper cabinets.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, then, and didn't pay any attention to how much time passed. He didn't allow himself to think or worry or hope for anything, he just stood there and felt like he was floating on top of the silence. He could feel everything around him. He felt at home.

And then he was suddenly ripped from his trance when he heard the front door open and someone walked into the house. "Hey, Macca!" The voice that Paul knew all too well, the nickname, the way he walked into the house and announced his arrival like it was as much his home as Paul's. Paul heart skipped a beat.

"J-John?" He swallowed hard. He was sweating. He was nervous. Why was he nervous? This was John, after all. His best mate, John...

Of course, when John had died, he and Paul hadn't exactly been on the best terms. They'd apologized to one another, certainly. They'd been on speaking terms, at least. But things were never the same between them after The Beatles as they had been before The Beatles.

Those thoughts quickly scurried from Paul's mind when John entered the kitchen. Suddenly Paul couldn't breathe, he couldn't remember how. He stood there, eyes wide, with his mouth hanging open like a dead fish.

"Hiya, Paulie," John greeted.

Paul ran across the kitchen and flung his arms around John. He couldn't help himself. "Oh my god! It's really you!"

"Erm," John said slowly. "Yeah? Who else would it be?"

"I m-missed you," Paul didn't bother to think about what he was saying, or consider that it would make absolutely no sense to John whatsoever. He didn't care at the moment. "I've missed you a lot, John."

"Um, Paul? You saw me last night." John furrowed his brows.

"Right, sorry," Paul let go of John and stepped away from him.

"Christ, Paul, you're crying!" John frowned. "What's gotten into you?"

"Sorry," Paul shook his head and dried his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I'm sorry. Just forget about it."

"Are you alright?" John questioned.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Paul smiled and just stared at John for a long while. "Brilliant, actually," he said eventually. "I've never been better. So... what's up?"

"Well, I figured I'd stop in and see you," John said, still watching Paul with a half-worried, half-bemused expression on his face. "And I wanted to let you know that band practice is cancelled tonight. George is swamped with homework or something, and Pete is sick. So, what do you say? You, me, The Cavern Club?"

Paul grinned. "Really?"

"Yeah!" John nodded. "We never go to The Cavern Club anymore unless we're the ones performing — speaking of which we're performing at nine tomorrow night. But it'll be a nice change to go and be the people listening to music and drinking beer for once."

"Yeah, that would be nice." Paul smiled and nodded. "Alright, let's do it. Pick me up at eight?"

"It's a date." John winked and Paul rolled his eyes. "See you later, Macca." John said.

"See you," Paul said, and he smiled, and then John left. Once John was gone, Paul began to laugh. Just laugh. Hysterically and uncontrollably. He'd just seen John again! John Lennon — alive! And he'd seen his father that morning! It was the most amazing thing that had happened to him in years!

He wandered about the house, laughing, wondering when he was going to wake up. Up the stairs  he went, and he began walking in and out of rooms until he was back in his bedroom. He thought he might look around and find a jacket to wear to the club that evening.

When he entered his room, he saw something on his pillow that certainly hadn't been there when he woke up. He walked over and picked it up. It was a piece of paper with neat handwriting that read;

     Dear Mr. McCartney,

          If you'd like to know how you ended up here, over fifty years into the past, then I have good news for you! I can help! Meet me in the park at 2:37am. I must advise you not to be late. I look forward to meeting you!

     -Barney