The night pressed against Marcus's bedroom window like a velvet curtain, the distant city lights creating their own constellation of earthbound stars. His mother's CD player hummed softly from the living room – she was listening to his demo for the third time tonight. Each play-through felt like another stitch in the fabric of this new timeline he was weaving.
He sat at his desk, surrounded by equipment that felt simultaneously primitive and precious. The Roland MC-505 his uncle had given him before passing – a gift that had shaped two lifetimes of music – glowed with familiar red LEDs. His notebooks lay open, filled with patterns of notes and lyrics that wouldn't exist for years, transcribed from memories of songs not yet written.
The phone Rico had left him sat silent on the desk, its chunky form a reminder of how far technology still had to go. In his other life, he'd waited two weeks before calling the numbers Rico had provided. Two weeks that had cost him crucial momentum, had pushed back meetings that could have launched him faster, higher.
Marcus picked up the phone, its weight unfamiliar in hands that remembered sleeker devices. On the other side of his wall, his mother's voice drifted through, speaking softly to someone – probably Aunt Clara, her confidante in all things Marcus-related. He closed his eyes, remembering how she'd sounded in that first timeline, telling her sister she was worried about him throwing his life away on music.
But this time, he heard something different in her tone. Pride, perhaps. Or hope. The demo had done its work, showing her glimpses of possibilities she'd never imagined for her son.
The clock on his nightstand blinked 11:47 PM. In his first life, he'd spent this night practicing the same basic beats over and over, not yet understanding the complexities of layering, the mathematics of rhythm that would later become his signature. Now his fingers itched with knowledge, with techniques learned in studios that wouldn't exist for decades.
He reached for his notebook, flipping to a fresh page. At the top, he wrote: "Timeline Alterations - Chapter 2" in the careful script he'd developed during years of contract reviews and legal negotiations that hadn't happened yet.
Below it, he began to list:
1. Mother - Earlier support secured
2. Rico - Deeper trust established
3. Demo - Advanced techniques introduced
4. Industry Contacts - Accelerated timeline
His pen hovered over the fifth line, hesitating before adding:
5. Beyoncé - Original meeting point: 8 months, 12 days
The name alone sent a complex wave of emotions through him. In his first life, they'd met at an industry event in 2005, a chance encounter that had spiraled into collaboration, friendship, and eventually, love. Now, with his accelerated timeline, with Rico's connections already humming with possibility, that meeting point drew closer like a star falling into new orbit.
From the living room, the music stopped. Marcus held his breath, listening to his mother's footsteps approaching his door. In his first life, this had been the night she'd told him to think about community college, about "something to fall back on." The memory sat heavy in his chest as her knock came, soft but deliberate.
"Come in, Ma," he called, closing his notebook.
Maria Johnson stepped into his room, the demo CD cradled in her hands like something precious and dangerous at once. Her eyes held that look he remembered from his first success, the one that mixed pride with fear, hope with maternal worry.
"You really made this?" she asked, though she'd asked the same question twice already tonight. "All of it?"
Marcus nodded, watching emotions play across her face like notes in a complex harmony. "Every track," he said softly. "Every layer."
She moved to sit on his bed, her scrubs still on from her shift, her eyes fixed on the CD's surface as if it might reveal its secrets. "It sounds... professional," she said finally. "Like something you'd hear on the radio. Better, maybe."
In his first life, he'd waited years to hear that tone of wonder in her voice. "That's just the beginning, Ma," he said, turning his chair to face her fully. "I've got so much more. So many ideas."
"Rico," she started, then paused, weighing her words. "He says he can help you. Get your music to the right people."
"He can," Marcus assured her, remembering how Rico had done exactly that, albeit slower, in another lifetime. "But I need you with me on this. Need you to trust me."
Maria looked up then, and Marcus saw in her eyes the strength that had carried her through raising him alone, through countless double shifts and lean times. "Show me," she said, echoing her words from the cafeteria, but this time with something new in her voice. "Show me this dream of yours, baby. Show me it's real."
Marcus stood, moved to his equipment with the certainty of decades of experience housed in a teenager's body. "Listen," he said, fingers finding keys with practiced precision. "Listen to tomorrow."
As the first notes filled his bedroom, he watched his mother's face in the blue glow of his equipment displays. In the streets below, the Bronx night pulsed with its eternal rhythm. Somewhere in this vast city, Rico was probably already making calls, setting in motion wheels that had taken years to turn the first time around.
And somewhere, in a studio he'd eventually know as well as his own heartbeat, Beyoncé was perhaps listening to tracks, planning her next album, unaware that time itself was being rewritten to bring them together sooner, differently, better.
Marcus played on, letting the music bridge the gap between what was and what could be, between memory and possibility, between a future remembered and a future reimagined. His mother swayed gently to the rhythm, and in that moment, he knew – this time, everything would be different.
This time, he would get it right.