The fluorescent lights of Maria's hospital cafeteria cast their familiar pallid glow across the metal table where Marcus sat, his untouched turkey sandwich a prop in what felt like a scene from someone else's life. His mother's navy scrubs rustled as she settled across from him, her coffee sending spirals of steam into the antiseptic air.
"Baby, you've been different these past few weeks," she said, her eyes carrying that penetrating look that had terrified him as a child – and still did, if he was honest. "Ever since that night you came home late from Rico's studio."
Marcus toyed with the sandwich wrapper, his thirty-five-year-old mind wrestling with his seventeen-year-old reality. How could he explain that her son had lived through the glittering heights of success and the crushing weight of failure, only to be granted this impossible second chance?
"I've just been thinking about the future, Ma," he said carefully, each word measured like beats in a arrangement. "About making sure we're taken care of."
Maria's laugh held more worry than mirth. "Seventeen years old and talking like an old man." She reached across the table, her hand bearing the gentle calluses of too many double shifts. "You know I don't mind the extra hours. Your education comes first."
The weight of future knowledge pressed against his chest like a bass line too heavy to bear. In his first life, she'd worked those double shifts for six more years, until her back gave out in the middle of a twelve-hour rotation. He'd been too caught up in his own career then, chasing phantom success in California, to even fly back for her surgery.
"What if I told you I could make it better?" The words escaped before he could catch them. "What if I knew – I mean, what if I could find a way to make sure you never had to worry about money again?"
The fluorescent lights flickered, a momentary dimming that felt like time itself hesitating. Maria's face softened, and Marcus saw the ghost of exhaustion she tried so hard to hide. "Marcus Johnson, you listen to me. I didn't raise you to carry burdens meant for grown folks."
But I am grown, he wanted to say. Instead, he watched her hands wrap around the ceramic mug, the same hands that had guided his fingers over piano keys when he was five, that had worked endless hours to pay for those lessons even when the heating bill loomed.
"Rico thinks I have real potential," he offered, this time crafting his words with the precision he'd learned in two decades of interviews he hadn't lived yet. "He's got connections, Ma. Real ones."
"That man," Maria began, but Marcus caught the slight softening around her eyes. In his first life, it had taken years for her to warm to Rico. This time, he knew exactly how to build that bridge.
"He reminds me of Uncle James," Marcus said quietly, watching recognition flutter across his mother's face. Her brother, gone too soon, had been the one to first spot Marcus's talent, to push Maria to nurture it. "Same way of seeing something in people before they see it themselves."
The cafeteria's clock ticked through another minute, its red digital display a stark reminder of time's relentless march. Somewhere in this same city, a younger Beyoncé was probably in a studio, laying down tracks for her next album. The thought sent a bittersweet ache through his chest – the memory of a love that hadn't happened yet, might never happen the same way again.
Maria studied him with eyes that had always seen too much. "You really believe in this music thing, don't you? Not just as some teenage dream, but for real?"
Marcus met her gaze, letting her see the conviction he'd earned through years she couldn't imagine. "More than anything, Ma. But I need you to believe in it too."
She was quiet for a long moment, her coffee forgotten between them. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of decisions that could reshape both their futures. "Show me, then. Show me this isn't just another young man's fantasy."
He reached into his backpack, pulling out the demo CD he'd spent the last week perfecting. This time around, he knew exactly which production techniques would make her stop seeing music as just a hobby. This time, he could give her a glimpse of tomorrow's gold today.
"Listen to this," he said, handling the disc like the precious key it was. "Just once, with an open mind."
The future hung between them, delicate as a suspended note, heavy as unspoken promises. Marcus watched his mother's hands close around the CD, knowing that in this moment, in this sterile cafeteria under unforgiving lights, he was rewriting not just his story, but hers too.