The studio lights cast long shadows across the mixing board, their amber glow reminiscent of the Bronx sunsets I'd lived twice but cherished once. Rico lounged in the corner, his fitted Yankees cap pulled low, nodding to the rhythm that poured through the monitors with the kind of satisfaction that comes from knowing you're witnessing something extraordinary.
I let my fingers dance across the Akai MPC, each pad triggering samples I'd carefully selected from recordings that, in another life, wouldn't exist for years. The beat was familiar yet foreign – a bridge between what was and what could be. My mind drifted to the original timeline, where this song had topped charts in 2012, but here in 2005, it felt like painting with colors the world hadn't yet imagined.
"Play that hook again, Marcus," Rico called out, leaning forward in his chair. "There's something there – something big."
I obliged, letting the chorus fill the room:
*Time is like water in my hands*
*Slipping through fingers, making new plans*
*Yesterday's future, tomorrow's past*
*Building a dream that's meant to last*
*But every change comes with a price*
*Every moment sacrificed*
*In the echo of what could be*
*Is the shadow of what should be*
The vocal track floated above the percussion, a young artist I'd discovered in Brooklyn who, in my previous life, had never gotten her shot. Sarah Mitchell. Her voice carried the weight of both timelines – the one where she'd remained unknown, and this one, where her star was already beginning to rise.
"This is different," Rico mused, more to himself than to me. "It's like... you're pulling sounds from somewhere else, somewhere they ain't been yet." He didn't know how right he was.
I adjusted the filter on the Rhodes piano sample, letting it swim through the mix like memories through time. The irony wasn't lost on me – using my knowledge of future music to create something that would shape that very future. Every decision in the studio felt like dropping pebbles in a pond, watching the ripples spread out toward shores I couldn't see.
My mother's words from breakfast echoed in my head: "Success is good, Marcus, but don't forget who you're becoming while you're building all this." She'd noticed the changes in me, the way I carried myself, the decisions I made with an certainty that sometimes frightened her. How could I explain that I wasn't just becoming – I was remembering?
The door creaked open, and Jade, Rico's new assistant, stuck her head in. "Mr. Martinez? They're ready for you in the conference room. The label execs just arrived."
Rico stood, straightening his jacket. "This is it, Marcus. Time to show them what tomorrow sounds like." He paused, studying me with those shrewd eyes that had seen through so many industry facades. "You sure you want to play them the whole EP? We could just give them the singles, keep some control..."
I shook my head, remembering how this meeting had gone in the original timeline – how playing it safe had led to a decent deal but not the one we needed. "Sometimes you have to risk everything to change anything," I said, standing up from the console. "Let's show them all of it."
As we walked down the hallway, its walls lined with gold records that marked other artists' journeys, I felt the weight of both timelines pressing in. In my pocket, my phone buzzed – a text from a number I'd been hoping to see for weeks. The message preview showed just enough: "Loved the demo you sent. Let's talk. - B"
She was earlier this time. Everything was earlier this time. And as Rico pushed open the conference room door, I squared my shoulders, ready to remake tomorrow one song at a time.
I caught my reflection in the chrome finish of a wall sconce – seventeen again, but with thirty-five years of dreams behind my eyes. The music we were about to play would change everything, just like last time. But this time, I knew exactly what that change would cost. And I was ready to pay it.