The fluorescent lights of Rico's basement studio cast long shadows across the mixing board, where I sat hunched over arrangements that wouldn't exist for another decade. My fingers traced patterns on the dials that had become muscle memory in a future I was desperately trying to reshape. The track playing through the monitors was something special – a blend of what would have been called trap music with orchestral elements that wouldn't be mainstream until 2015. Too early, perhaps, but I couldn't help myself.
"You're living in another world again, aren't you?" Rico's voice cut through my reverie, Brooklyn accent thick with concern. He stood in the doorway, a paper cup of bodega coffee in each hand, steam rising like the ghosts of songs yet unwritten.
I forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Just trying to stay ahead of the curve, that's all." The lie tasted bitter, but it was better than the truth. How could I explain that I was trying to recreate a sound that wouldn't exist for years, while simultaneously ensuring I didn't create it too soon?
Rico set one of the cups beside me, the rich aroma of Colombian dark roast mixing with the electrical warmth of the equipment. "Look, Marcus, I've been in this game long enough to know when someone's holding back. You got something different in you, kid. Something old in those young eyes."
The beat pulsed through the monitors, the strings swelling beneath the 808s:
*In the shadows of tomorrow
Chasing ghosts I used to know
Every beat, every borrowed sorrow
Echoes secrets I can't show*
I had written these lyrics in another life, but here they held a different weight. Rico nodded along, his expression thoughtful. "That's what I'm talking about. Seventeen-year-olds don't write like that, Marcus. They don't produce like this either."
The mixing board suddenly felt like a confession booth, each fader a sin I was trying to adjust. Mother had always warned me about being too good too fast – not in this timeline, but in the one I'd left behind. "Sometimes I feel like I've lived this all before," I admitted, the truth hiding in plain sight.
Rico pulled up a chair, its wheels squeaking against the linoleum. The sound reminded me of my first studio session in 2019 – fifteen years from now, in a life I was trying to rewrite. "You know what your problem is?" He took a long sip of coffee. "You're scared of your own gift. Like you know too much about where this road leads."
If he only knew.
The track continued to play, the fusion of past and future weaving through the air like smoke. Through the small basement window, I could see the first hints of dawn breaking over the Bronx. Somewhere out there, a younger Beyoncé was probably in a studio too, working on her own dreams, unaware that our paths would cross in ways that would reshape both our destinies.
"I just don't want to mess this up," I said finally, my hand hovering over the mixer. "There's so much at stake."
Rico leaned back, his chair creaking with the movement. "There always is, kid. But you can't produce tomorrow's music if you're too afraid of today." He gestured to the track playing. "This right here? This is future stuff. But it's your future, and you gotta own it."
I looked down at my teenage hands, calloused from guitar strings but missing the scars from years of studio work that hadn't happened yet. He was right, in ways he couldn't understand. I had been given a second chance not just to relive my life, but to reshape it. The music flowing through the speakers was proof of that – a bridge between what was and what could be.
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," I said, reaching for the fader to bring up the strings. The melody soared, carrying with it echoes of a future I was slowly learning to reinvent.
Rico smiled, the kind of smile that reminded me why he'd become such a crucial part of my journey in both timelines. "Now that's more like it. Let's make some history, Marcus. Or is it future? With you, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference."
If he only knew how right he was.