The Atlantic Records lobby hadn't changed in twenty years—wouldn't change in twenty years. The same platinum records lined the walls like metallic constellations, the same leather chairs waited patiently for dreams to sink into them. Even the receptionist's perfume was familiar—Chanel No. 5, eternal as ambition itself.
Rico sat beside me, his leg bouncing with that nervous energy I remembered from our first meeting with major labels. His suit was sharper this time around—I'd insisted on it, another lesson learned in a future that was becoming more distant with each rewritten day. In my hand, the demo CD of "Tomorrow's Gold" felt warm, like it had absorbed all the hours we'd poured into it.
"Marcus Johnson?" The assistant who appeared looked exactly as I remembered her—Angela Morrison, future VP of A&R, though right now she was still climbing the corporate ladder, her heels clicking against marble with metronomic precision.
"They're ready for you in Studio A."
Studio A. In my original timeline, we'd never made it past the conference room. Small changes, butterfly wings creating hurricanes.
The studio was a temple of sound, built in the days when record labels had budgets for perfection. SSL console, vintage Neumanns hanging from the ceiling, acoustic treatment that cost more than my mother's annual salary. Behind the board sat Jerome Davidson, head of Urban A&R, twenty years younger than when I'd last seen him at a Grammy afterparty that hadn't happened yet.
"Play it," he said, no preamble.
Rico moved to speak—his usual pitch about market positioning and demographic appeal—but I touched his arm. Let the music talk first. Another lesson from a future undone.
The opening notes of "Tomorrow's Gold" filled the room, Maria's voice floating through speakers worth more than our entire studio. I watched Jerome's face in the control room's soft light, saw the moment his expression changed—the same look he'd given Alicia Keys in 2001, the same look that had launched a dozen careers I'd studied like scripture.
*When the morning comes calling,
With diamonds in hand...*
"Stop." Jerome held up a finger. The music cut off. "Who produced this?"
"I did," I said quietly.
"That brass arrangement..." He leaned forward. "I've never heard anything like it. The way it counterpoints with the bridge—it's like you're playing with time itself."
If he only knew.
"The whole package is there," Rico jumped in, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "We've got a five-track EP ready to go, marketing plan, social media strategy—"
"Social media?" Jerome's eyebrow arched. "MySpace numbers?"
"Think bigger," I said, the words coming from a future where MySpace was a punchline. "Facebook. YouTube. Platforms that let us control the narrative, build direct relationships with listeners."
"Facebook is just for college kids," Angela said from the doorway.
"For now," I replied, remembering a world where grandmothers posted baby pictures and presidents made policy by tweet. "But things change fast in digital spaces."
Jerome studied me, the same way Professor Williams had earlier. Like he was seeing something that didn't quite fit the timeline.
"You're, what, seventeen?"
"Seventeen going on forty," Rico joked, not knowing how close to the truth he was.
The control room fell silent except for the soft hum of electronics. Through the glass, I could see the live room where, in my original timeline, I'd recorded background vocals for a remix that went nowhere. On the wall, a platinum record from D'Angelo caught the light—'Voodoo', another masterpiece about playing with time.
"We're prepared to offer," Jerome began, but I cut him off.
"Before we talk numbers," I said, "let's talk about publishing."
Rico shot me a look—this wasn't part of our planned negotiation strategy. But I'd seen too many artists lose everything to bad publishing deals, had lived through it myself once.
"Masters stay with us. Publishing split 80/20 in our favor. Marketing commitment in writing, minimum social media budget, and clear reversion rights after seven years."
The room went still. These were terms no seventeen-year-old should know to ask for, demands that wouldn't become industry standard for another decade.
Jerome leaned back in his chair, shadows playing across his face like variations in a mix. "You talk like you've done this before."
"I've studied the business," I said carefully. "History has a way of repeating itself. I'm just trying to write a better version."
He nodded slowly, then reached for the console. "Tomorrow's Gold" filled the room again, Maria's voice wrapping around us like silk around steel.
*Tomorrow's gold, tomorrow's gold,
The future's getting old,
But baby, we can change
What's already been told...*
"Play the rest of the EP," he said.
I glanced at Rico, who was already reaching for his briefcase. In it was a CD of songs that didn't exist yet—tracks I'd written in another life, polished with twenty years of experience, recorded with the hunger of youth. A greatest hits album from a future I was carefully undoing, one note at a time.
The diamond stylus of time dropped onto the vinyl of possibility, and I let the music play.