The mixing board before me gleamed under the studio's amber lights, each fader and knob holding promises I alone could understand. Summer heat pressed against the windows of Rico's newly renovated studio, but inside, we floated in the artificial cool of precision-calibrated air conditioning – a luxury my younger self would have seen as extravagant, but my older mind recognized as necessary for the equipment's longevity.
"Run it again," I said, more to myself than to Devon, the young rapper whose flow reminded me of a future star I'd produced in my previous life. The track we were working on had that raw energy of early 2000s hip-hop, but I was layering in elements that wouldn't become mainstream for another decade. The risk of being too ahead of my time constantly weighed against my desire to innovate.
Devon's voice filled the studio:
Time's like water in my hands Slipping through these golden plans Yesterday's tomorrow man Building empire on quicksand
I adjusted the reverb, letting it cascade just so – a technique I'd learned from a Swedish producer in 2019, but one I could reasonably claim to have "experimented into existence" here in 2004. The irony of the lyrics wasn't lost on me; I'd written them last night, unable to sleep, thoughts of my mother's medical bills and Rico's ambitious expansion plans tangling with memories of a future I was deliberately unwriting.
"That's the one," Rico declared from the leather couch behind me, his entrepreneur's instincts catching what others might miss. He'd started wearing suits now, trading his original streetwear for business casual that still managed to look street-smart. The transformation had begun earlier than in my previous timeline – my influence rippling out in unexpected ways.
The song continued:
Every move calculated Every win orchestrated But the cost of being great is Knowing what's been amputated
I caught my reflection in the control room window – seventeen but not, wearing the face of my youth with eyes that had seen two decades more. The dissonance never quite faded. Behind me, Rico was checking his flip phone, no doubt coordinating our next industry move. In my original timeline, we'd still be working out of his cousin's basement studio, but my "predictions" about industry trends had accelerated our trajectory.
The modern production touches I was adding would raise eyebrows, but not too many – that was the delicate balance. Just innovative enough to push boundaries, not so revolutionary as to seem impossible. The track needed to sound like 2004 dreaming of 2006, not 2024 bleeding backward.
A knock at the studio door introduced Maria, my mother, carrying paper bags from the Dominican place down the street. The sight of her still caught in my throat sometimes – so much younger than when I'd left 2024, her hands not yet marked by the arthritis that would come from two decades of hospital administrative work. Thanks to our early successes, she'd recently cut back to part-time, though convincing her to do even that had required weeks of negotiation.
"My son the producer," she said, setting down the bags, pride and lingering concern warring in her voice. In both timelines, she'd never quite trusted the music industry's promises. But this time around, I was better equipped to protect us both.
Devon's hook echoed through the monitors one last time:
Time's a circle, not a line Future's in this present shine Betting on these dreams of mine Living twice to get it right
The layers of meaning in those lyrics would remain my private joke – one of many. I made a final adjustment to the mix, knowing that this track would help establish the sound that would define the next decade. Not because I'd heard it in my previous life, but because this time, I would be the one to create it.
"It's ready," I announced, catching Rico's ambitious grin in my peripheral vision. My mother had begun setting out the food, transforming the studio's coffee table into a family dinner scene that would have seemed impossible in the original timeline. Outside, the Bronx streets hummed with summer life, unaware that the future was being rewritten in this climate-controlled room, one fader adjustment at a time.