The bathroom mirror in Rico's studio showed dark circles under my eyes—young skin marked by old worries. Dawn was creeping through the small window, painting the tiles in shades of possibility. My Nokia buzzed: another message from Min-jun Park, the fourth since the radio show. Each text felt like a temporal fault line, threatening to crack the foundation of everything I was trying to build.
When I emerged, Maria was waiting in the live room, illuminated by the soft glow of a vintage mic I knew would sell for twenty thousand dollars in 2018. She'd come straight from her night shift at the Queens diner—the job she wouldn't need in this timeline, not with Atlantic's advance about to change everything.
"Play it again," she said softly. "The new bridge section."
I nodded, sliding behind the console. "Time Stamp" filled the room, its lyrics hitting differently in the morning light:
*Memories like vinyl,
Spinning round and round,
Future's in the grooves but
Time keeps breaking down.
Time stamp, time stamp,
Living life in rewind...*
"There's something about your productions," Maria said, her eyes closed as she absorbed the mix. "Like you're pulling sound from somewhere else. Somewhere... ahead."
Through the control room glass, I saw Rico enter, carrying coffee and the Atlantic contracts. He'd spent all night with the lawyers, crafting a deal that wouldn't exist in standard industry practice for another decade. Behind him came Sophia, still wearing her WNYU badge, looking like she hadn't slept either.
"The label called again," Rico said, setting down the contracts. "They want to know about the brass arrangement. Apparently some Korean jazz musician's been making noise online about it."
My stomach tightened. Social media moved faster in this timeline—another butterfly effect I hadn't anticipated. I thought of Min-jun Park's texts, each one more specific about the technical aspects of an arrangement he wouldn't create for years.
"It's complicated," I said.
"Like everything about you lately," Sophia observed, settling into the producer's chair. Her eyes met mine in the studio glass reflection—two sets of dark circles, two different kinds of knowing.
Maria stepped up to the mic, adjusting her headphones. The morning sun caught her face at the same angle it had in her first Grammy photos—photos that now existed only in my memory, like sheet music for a song yet to be written.
"From the bridge," I said into the talkback mic, trying to focus on the present. The track rolled back:
*Time stamp, time stamp,
Echoes getting loud,
Time stamp, time stamp,
Future's in the crowd...*
"Stop." Maria pulled off her headphones. "Those lyrics... they're about you, aren't you? About whatever happened to you."
The room went still. Rico looked up from the contracts, his expression sharp. Sophia leaned forward in her chair. Even the VU meters seemed to hold their breath.
In the control room glass, I saw our reflections overlaid like tracks in a mix: Rico's ambition, Maria's talent, Sophia's insight, my impossible knowledge—all converging in this moment, this studio, this timeline.
"Sometimes," I said carefully, "you have to go backward to move forward."
"Like tape rewind," Sophia said, and I remembered she'd use that exact phrase in her Rolling Stone interview about Maria's rise—an interview that now might never happen.
"Marcus." Rico's voice was quiet but intense. "These contracts... the publishing splits, the social media clauses, the streaming rights provisions—some of this stuff doesn't even exist yet. How did you know to ask for it?"
The morning sun stretched our shadows across the studio floor like grooves in a record. Outside, New York was waking up to a day that, in my original timeline, had been unremarkable. But now...
"Play it from the top," I said instead of answering. "Full band, full vocals."
The music filled the room again, but this time we all heard it differently. Maria's voice carried the weight of futures both lived and unlived. The brass line sang with knowledge it shouldn't have. The drums marked time that was becoming increasingly fluid.
*Clock hands spinning backward,
Knowledge falling like rain,
Everything I know now,
Wrapped in yesterday's pain...*
My phone buzzed again—Min-jun Park, probably with more questions about his own future innovation. The Atlantic contracts sat unopened, their clauses protecting against problems the industry hadn't invented yet. Maria watched me through the glass, her eyes full of questions about tomorrows I was trying to reshape.
"Whatever's happening," Sophia said softly, "whatever you know... it's changing everything, isn't it?"
I thought of Maxwell Kane, still alive in this timeline. Of Maria's future Grammys, now uncertain. Of my mother's tired eyes in a future I was erasing, one track at a time.
"Everything changes," I said, watching our reflections blur in the morning light. "The trick is making sure it changes right this time."
"This time," Rico repeated, the words heavy with implication.
The song played on, its rhythms marking time that was both passing and returning, like a needle finding its way home in a groove. Through the glass, Maria began to sing along with her own voice, adding new harmonies to a future still being mixed.
*Time stamp, time stamp,
Living life in rewind,
Time stamp, time stamp,
Leaving futures behind...*
Tomorrow's gold was weighing heavy, but at least now I wasn't carrying it alone.