Strings, Spells, and the Beatleverse

Prologue: A Letter

May 1967

Dear Ringo,

I've written this letter three times now, and every time it feels like it makes less sense. Honestly, I'm not even sure I should be writing it. But damn it, I need to tell you... before it happens again.

I was in my room, spinning one of your records—like I always do—when something... shifted. At first, it was just a sound. A low hum, like the air itself was vibrating. Then, a flash of light, so bright I had to shield my eyes.

And suddenly, I wasn't in my room anymore.

I don't know how to explain this. The music—it wasn't just music anymore. It became a place. A living, breathing thing I could step into. There were colours I can't even describe, and places that felt both real and unreal. And you were there. All of you.

You were laughing, talking—like you controlled everything around you. But it wasn't normal. It was... warped. Like the world bent itself to your music.

When I woke up, I was back home. Everything in its place—except the record. It looked the same, but something was... off. Like it had changed, even though I couldn't see how. It wasn't just the music anymore, Ringo. I don't know how to put it, but I know it's different.

I know this sounds insane, but I had to tell someone. Please, tell me: What's going on? Is your music more than just music? Or am I losing my mind?

To you, Ringo—my favourite Beatle of all time—do you know anything about this? Was it dangerous?

Yours,
James

P.S. Don't worry, Ringo, I'm still listening to your records—they're still fire. I'm just pacing myself now. And sometimes, I throw on a Stones vinyl instead of the Beatles, just to be safe. Can't be too cautious, right? Oh, and say hi to Paul, George, and John for me.