Dawn crept through the studio's narrow windows like a melody searching for its harmony. Empty containers of my mother's arroz con gandules littered the coffee table, and Rico had finally succumbed to sleep on the velvet couch, his BlackBerry still clutched in his hand. In twelve years, he'd be accepting a Lifetime Achievement Award at the BET Awards. In my previous timeline, I'd watched it from a bar in Singapore, nursing regrets and a drink I couldn't afford.
The final mix of "Tomorrow's Gold" played softly through the monitors, Maria's voice intertwining with that brass line stolen from a future that might never exist now. Three empty Red Bulls stood sentry by the console—some things hadn't changed between timelines. Some addictions transcend time.
*Dreams we're chasing, futures we're facing,
Time keeps racing, but baby just hold on,
Yesterday's silver turns to tomorrow's gold,
Stories left untold, becoming stories getting old...*
The new bridge section hit, and I felt that familiar shiver—the one that had always told me when something was about to blow up. In my old life, I'd ignored it too often, chasing quick money instead of lasting impact. The mixing board glowed like a city at night, each LED a window into possibilities I'd already lived through once.
My phone buzzed—a Nokia 3310, prehistoric by my mental timeline's standards. A text from my mother: "Coming by before work. Need to talk."
The sun was fully up now, painting the studio in shades of amber and promise. I saved the final mix to the hard drive, then to a backup disk—a habit born from a studio fire in 2013 that hadn't happened yet and never would, if I could help it.
Rico stirred on the couch, his eyes opening with that sharp focus that had made him legendary. Would make him legendary. Time was becoming fluid in my mind, past and future swirling like vocals in a mix.
"You didn't sleep," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Couldn't. Not with this in my head." I gestured to the console, to the song that was both memory and prophecy.
He sat up, rubbing his neck. "Play it. One more time."
I obliged, pushing the faders up, letting the full mix fill the room. Rico closed his eyes, but I watched his hands—they were moving slightly, unconsciously counting potential dollar signs. Some patterns repeated across timelines.
"This is going to change everything," he said softly.
If he only knew. In my original timeline, this song had been a minor hit, buried under poor marketing and worse timing. But now, with twenty years of industry knowledge packed into my seventeen-year-old brain, it could be more. It would be more.
The studio door opened, and my mother entered, wearing her hospital administrator uniform—the job she'd taken in my old timeline to pay for my studio time. Her eyes were tired, but they held that mixture of worry and pride I'd seen too many times before.
"Marcus," she said, "we need to talk about college."
Rico's eyes snapped open. This conversation had happened before, in another life. It had ended with me dropping out, with promises I'd broken, with years she'd spent working extra shifts to support a dream that took too long to materialize.
"Ma—" I started, but she held up a hand.
"I heard the song," she said, surprising me. "Last night, through the door. It's... different from anything I've ever heard."
She moved further into the room, her practical shoes silent on the studio carpet. In the morning light, she looked so young—hardly older than I was mentally. Time was a circle, and I was trapped in its groove like a needle on vinyl.
"The deadline for NYU's music business program is next week," she continued. "Your grades are good enough. We can figure out the money."
In my previous life, I'd laughed at the suggestion of college. Had told her music couldn't be taught in a classroom. Had spent the next decade learning lessons that could have been absorbed in four years.
Rico watched us, his expression unreadable. He'd never known about this moment, about how close I'd come to taking a different path. In the original timeline, he'd signed me two weeks after I dropped out. We'd celebrated at a diner that would become a Starbucks in 2019.
"Marcus?" My mother's voice pulled me back to the present—this present. "What are you thinking?"
The final chorus of "Tomorrow's Gold" faded out, leaving us in a silence heavy with bifurcating futures. I looked at the console, at Rico, at my mother's hopeful face. In my mind, twenty years of memories collided with the possibilities of now.
"What if," I said slowly, "we could do both?"
Rico's eyebrows shot up. My mother's expression didn't change, but her shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Music business program during the day," I continued, the plan forming as I spoke. "Studio at night. Build the foundation right this time."
*This time.* The words slipped out before I could catch them. But if either of them noticed, they didn't show it.
Through the studio windows, the morning sun painted everything in shades of possibility. Somewhere in Queens, Maria Chen was probably waking up, unaware that her voice would change lives—but differently this time. Somewhere in Houston, Beyoncé was probably in a studio too, recording tracks I'd studied like scripture, tracks that might evolve differently now.
Time wasn't just a circle; it was a mixing board, and I finally knew how to work the controls.
"Both," my mother repeated, testing the word.
"Both," Rico echoed, and I could see him recalculating, adapting, the way he always had, always would.
I turned back to the console, letting my fingers rest on the faders. Behind me, my mother and Rico began discussing logistics, their voices blending like tracks in a mix. Outside, the city was waking up to a future only I had seen, but one I could finally shape.
The backup disk ejected with a soft click. Tomorrow's gold, indeed.