The party dissolved like a fever dream as dawn crept over Manhattan, leaving the high-rise offices strange and hollow in the pale morning light. Empty champagne bottles stood like spent soldiers across marble countertops, and somewhere a forgotten turntable spun silence, its needle lifting and dropping with mechanical persistence.
I found myself in my private studio, the one Rico had insisted I maintain separate from the main recording space. Here, surrounded by equipment that bridged two decades of technological evolution, I could breathe without the weight of performance. The room still held the ghost of music from hours before – or perhaps years ahead, time had become so fluid in my mind that sometimes I couldn't tell the difference.
*When morning breaks on yesterday
Future dreams begin to fray
Standing still between two times
Hearing all the warning signs*
The lyrics came unbidden, and I reached for my notebook – the old one, leather-bound and battered, that I'd carried through both timelines. My handwriting sprawled across the page, some notes written by my teenage hand in this new present, others inscribed by my older self in a future that no longer existed. The paradox of it all would have been maddening if I hadn't learned to find comfort in the contradiction.
"I thought I'd find you here," Maria's voice came soft from the doorway. She'd changed from her evening wear back into jeans and a sweater, looking more like the mother I remembered from my first life. "You always hide in your music when things get too real."
"Not hiding," I said, but we both knew better. "Just processing."
She crossed the room and sat beside me at the console, her presence as steady as a metronome. In the gentle morning light, I could see the subtle changes success had wrought in her – the confidence in her posture, the absence of worry lines around her eyes, the designer watch that replaced her old Timex. Small details that marked how drastically I'd altered her timeline.
"L.A. Reid offered us a deal," I said, the words hanging in the air like suspended notes. "Full creative control, major distribution, seven figures up front."
"I know," she smiled, and something in her expression reminded me that she'd grown as much as I had in this new timeline. "Rico told me. He also told me you're hesitating."
I turned to the mixing board, fingers tracing patterns across knobs and faders. "In my—" I caught myself, old habits of secrecy dying hard. "I mean, sometimes I worry about moving too fast. Changing too much."
"Mijo," Maria's hand covered mine, stilling its restless movement. "Since when has music been about standing still? You've always been ahead of your time. Even as a little boy, you heard rhythms no one else could hear."
If she only knew how literal that truth was. The irony almost made me laugh.
*Time keeps flowing like a song
Right and wrong, weak and strong
Every choice a different key
Unlocking what was meant to be*
Through the window, the city was coming alive, its morning symphony of traffic and commerce building like an orchestra warming up. My phone buzzed with messages – Rico coordinating meetings, artists requesting sessions, journalists seeking interviews. The machinery of fame grinding into motion for another day.
"You know what I remember most about your father?" Maria said suddenly, her voice taking on that distant quality it always had when she spoke of him. "Not the leaving – everyone remembers that. I remember how he used to say music was like time travel. That a perfect song could take you anywhere, any when."
I looked at her sharply, but her gaze was fixed on the rising sun. "He wasn't wrong," I said carefully.
"No, he wasn't." She stood, straightening her sweater with hands that had once been calloused from double shifts but were now manicured and smooth. "And neither are you, Marcus. Whatever decision you make about Reid's offer, trust your instincts. They've gotten us this far."
She kissed my forehead and left me alone with the equipment and the echoes of future songs. On the console, my notebook lay open to fresh pages, waiting for lyrics that would bridge the gap between what was and what could be.
I reached for a pen, remembering how in my original timeline, I'd let fear of success hold me back, let caution clip my wings. But that was a different story, one that was fading like an old recording with each new track we laid down.
*Between the beats of yesterday
Tomorrow's rhythm finds its way
Every note a choice to make
Every song a chance to take*
The sun cleared the horizon, painting the studio in gold. Somewhere in the building, cleaning crews were erasing evidence of the party, resetting the stage for another day of music and magic. But here in my sanctuary, time stood still for a moment, balanced between memory and possibility.
I picked up my phone and dialed Rico's number. He answered on the first ring, as if he'd been waiting. Perhaps he had been – in either timeline, he'd always had a sixth sense for important moments.
"Make the call," I said, my voice steady with the certainty of someone who had seen both sides of this coin. "Tell Reid we're in, but with one condition." I paused, thinking of the future that was rushing toward us like a freight train made of gold and dreams. "Tell him we want to talk about changing the whole game."
As I hung up, the first beats of a new song began forming in my mind, a rhythm that would shake the industry's foundations years before anyone was ready for it. But then again, that was the point of time travel, wasn't it? To make the future arrive right on time, even if it was years ahead of schedule.