Professor Williams's voice droned through NYU's music business lecture hall like a low-pass filter, cutting out all the highs of my attention. She was explaining the Telecommunications Act of 1996 and its impact on radio consolidation—something I'd lived through twice now. In my first life, I'd learned these lessons the hard way, watching local stations get swallowed by conglomerates, watching diversity die in the name of profit margins.
"Mr. Johnson," she called out, her wire-rimmed glasses catching the fluorescent lights. "Perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on how this legislation affected urban radio formats?"
Several heads turned toward me, including Sophia Chen's—Maria's younger sister, though she didn't know I knew that yet. In this timeline, I'd "discovered" Maria through Sophia's student radio show, a cleaner narrative than finding her at the Queens diner.
"The consolidation created programming homogeneity," I said, the words flowing from twenty years of future frustration. "Clear Channel—I mean, iHeart—" I caught myself, but too late. The company wouldn't change its name for another decade. "Major companies bought up local stations, standardized playlists, reduced opportunities for regional artists to break through traditional radio."
Professor Williams's eyebrows arched above her glasses. "That's... a remarkably precise analysis. Though I'm not familiar with 'iHeart.'"
I felt Sophia's eyes on me again. She'd been watching lately, the way Rico did, noting the little slips. The moments when tomorrow leaked into today.
"Just something I read about," I mumbled, dropping my gaze to my notebook where I'd been sketching waveforms—the DNA of a beat that wouldn't exist until 2019. Beside it, I'd written potential names for the publishing company Rico and I were forming: Temporal Tracks, Future Frequencies, Tomorrow's Sound.
The lecture continued, but my mind drifted to the studio session scheduled for tonight. Maria was coming in to lay down vocals for our second track, "Time Stamp." The lyrics played in my head:
*Clock hands spinning backward,
Knowledge falling like rain,
Everything I know now,
Wrapped in yesterday's pain.
Time stamp, time stamp,
Living life in rewind,
Time stamp, time stamp,
Leaving futures behind...*
My phone vibrated—the Nokia still felt like a toy in my hands. A text from Rico: "Meeting with Atlantic pushed to 6. They heard 'Tomorrow's Gold.' They're interested."
In my original timeline, Atlantic had passed on us. We'd signed with a smaller label that went bankrupt in 2008, taking our masters with them. I'd spent three years in court trying to get them back. But this time...
"Mr. Johnson?" Professor Williams's voice cut through my thoughts. "The class is over."
I looked up. The lecture hall was empty except for Sophia, who lingered by her seat, pretending to pack her bag while stealing glances my way. In my previous life, she'd become a successful A&R executive. I wondered if that future still held in this rewrite.
"Sorry," I said, gathering my things. "Lost in thought."
"Quite often, it seems." Professor Williams's tone was careful, measured. "Your paper on future music industry trends was... fascinating. Particularly your predictions about streaming services and social media marketing."
My stomach tightened. I'd tried to be subtle in that paper, to couch my knowledge in maybes and possibilities. But how do you hide twenty years of certainty behind seventeen years of supposed inexperience?
"Just connecting dots," I said, echoing a phrase I'd used in interviews that hadn't happened yet. "Looking at current technology trends, consumer behavior patterns..."
"Indeed." She adjusted her glasses. "The department is hosting a symposium next month on industry evolution. We'd love to have you present your theories."
A symposium. Public speaking. Records of my predictions. The implications spiraled through my mind like feedback through monitors.
"I'll think about it," I said, shouldering my bag.
Outside the lecture hall, Sophia was waiting. Her NYU radio station badge caught the light—WNYU 89.1 FM, where she'd be playing "Tomorrow's Gold" for the first time tonight. In my original timeline, the song had never made it to college radio.
"That thing you said about Clear Channel becoming iHeart," she said, falling into step beside me. "My sister Maria mentioned you do that sometimes. Say things that haven't happened yet."
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of the music building, casting shadows that looked like waveforms on the floor. In eight hours, I'd be in the studio with Maria, recording a song about time travel for an audience that thought it was just a metaphor.
"Sometimes the future's written in the present," I said, quoting a lyric I hadn't written yet. "You just have to know where to look."
Sophia's dark eyes studied me with an intensity that reminded me of her sister. "And you know where to look?"
Down the hall, Professor Williams emerged from the lecture hall, her face thoughtful as she watched us. The Nokia buzzed again in my pocket—probably Rico, finalizing details for the Atlantic meeting. Somewhere in the city, Maria was preparing for tonight's session, unaware that her voice would soundtrack a future only I remembered.
"I know enough," I said finally. "Maybe too much."
The shadows stretched longer, like time itself reaching forward to embrace what was coming. Or perhaps reaching back to remind me of what had been.