After the battle, the crowd dispersed like autumn leaves scattered by an approaching storm, leaving behind the electric residue of possibility. Rico lingered near the sound equipment, his fingers absently adjusting knobs with the practiced indifference of a man accustomed to being pursued. I remembered this moment from my first life—how I'd rushed over, eager as a spring sapling, only to be dismissed with a vague promise of "staying in touch."
This time, I turned to Mom first. She stood against the back wall, her dark eyes holding the weight of a thousand late-night shifts and deferred dreams. Twenty years of future memories reminded me how many times she'd stood just like this, watching me chase melodies while bills piled up like snow in December.
"You did good, baby," she said, smoothing my collar with hands that had aged too quickly. "Different from your father's stuff. More... intentional."
The word choice startled me—had she sensed something of my older self in the performance? I caught her hand and squeezed it, feeling the calluses that told our family's true story. "I'm going to make this work, Mom. Not like Dad. I promise."
"Marcus." Rico's voice cut through the emptying room like a saxophone solo, precisely timed. He approached with that particular swagger that would become legendary in music industry circles, though for now it was still confined to South Bronx venues and underground battles. "That last track. The production value's different. Where'd you record it?"
In my first life, I'd stammered something about borrowing studio time. This time, I met his gaze with the steady confidence of someone who'd already lived through the industry's seismic shifts. "My setup's basic, but I know how to make it sing. Been studying the engineering side since I was thirteen."
Mom's hand tightened on my shoulder—a warning grip that spoke of electricity bills paid in installments and grocery store mathematics. But Rico's eyes had taken on that keen gleam I remembered from later years, when he'd spot an undervalued asset in the market.
"There's a session tomorrow at Platinum Sound," he said, pulling out a business card that looked more expensive than it should have for a local promoter. "Couple artists need background tracks. Nothing major, but it pays." He paused, manufacturing casualness. "If you're interested."
The universe bent toward this moment like light around a star. In my original timeline, I'd missed this session, too proud to take background work. That decision had cost us months of momentum, forced Mom to pick up extra shifts that gradually wore away at her health.
"He's still in school," Mom interjected, her voice carrying the steel of maternal protection. "And working part-time at—"
"I'll be there," I said, accepting the card with just enough eagerness to seem young, just enough professionalism to spark Rico's interest. "What time?"
As we negotiated details, I watched Mom's expression shift between worry and cautious hope. In the dim light of the community center, she looked achingly young—younger than I was in my mind's eye. I made a mental note to start setting aside money immediately this time, to prevent the stress lines that would otherwise begin etching themselves around her eyes.
Rico departed with his characteristic flourish, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and promises. The empty room seemed to pulse with potential energy, like a studio just before the first note drops.
"Marcus," Mom began, her tone carrying that familiar note of caution. "Baby, I know you've got dreams, but—"
"Trust me," I interrupted gently, the words carrying the weight of twenty years' future knowledge. "This time it's different. I'm not chasing shadows like Dad did. I've got a plan."
She studied my face in that way mothers do, searching for signs of the child she knew in features that must have seemed suddenly older. "You sound so sure. When did my little boy get so..."
"Strategic?" I offered, remembering how often she'd use that word in the years to come.
"Grown," she finished quietly.
Outside, the Bronx night painted the windows in shades of neon and shadow. Somewhere in this city, a teenage Beyoncé was probably in a studio, laying down tracks for her destiny. Somewhere, the future I remembered was slowly unweaving itself, reknitting into something new. But here, in this moment, I simply helped my mother gather her purse and jacket, protective of her in ways my seventeen-year-old self had never thought to be.
As we walked toward the subway station, I hummed a melody that wouldn't be written for another decade—a song that, in another life, would have been our first platinum record. This time, we'd do better. This time, every note would serve a purpose beyond glory.
This time, I'd make sure the music lifted all of us.