The studio lights cast long shadows across the mixing board as I sat alone, watching the meters dance to a rhythm only I knew was coming. Twenty different versions of the same track played in my head – versions I hadn't recorded yet, versions from a future that now existed only in my memory. My fingers traced the fader, muscle memory from years that hadn't happened fighting with the present moment.
"You're doing it again," Rico's voice cut through my reverie. He stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway fluorescents, his silhouette framed by gold records that weren't mine. Not yet. "That thing where you look at equipment like it's telling you secrets."
I smiled, the kind of smile that belonged to both my seventeen-year-old face and my thirty-five-year-old mind. "Maybe it is," I said, turning back to the console. The track I was working on – "Tomorrow's Dreams" – pulsed through the monitors, its bass line threading through the room like smoke:
Yesterday's gone, but tomorrow ain't here Standing between what was and what could be Time slips away like sand through my hands But the future's got its eyes on me
The irony wasn't lost on me. The lyrics had come easily, perhaps too easily, dripping with double meanings that only I could fully understand. The chorus swelled:
Tomorrow's dreams don't come for free There's always a price to pay For every step ahead you see Something gets left yesterday
Rico moved closer, his reflection joining mine in the mixing board's glossy surface. "This track's different," he said, and I could hear the calculations running behind his words. "It's like... like you're pulling sound from somewhere else. Somewhere that isn't here yet."
If he only knew.
I adjusted the reverb on the bridge section, letting the harmonies swim together like memories of futures past. The production techniques I was using wouldn't become common for another decade, but I'd learned to introduce them gradually, like watercolors bleeding into paper. Just enough to push boundaries without raising too many questions.
"The industry's not ready for this sound," Rico continued, but his tone carried admiration rather than doubt. "But they will be. You're making them ready."
My mother's words from breakfast echoed in my head: "Sometimes you talk like you've already lived through all this, Marcus." She'd said it with a laugh, but her eyes had held something else – recognition, perhaps, of the man her son was becoming, or had already been.
I let the track play through, each note a stepping stone between past and future. The final verse emerged, quiet but insistent:
Time is a circle that bends but don't break Every ending's just a new start to make Standing here now with then in my eyes Watching tomorrow's sun start to rise
The song faded to silence, leaving only the soft hum of equipment and the weight of unspoken knowledge. Rico was right – the industry wasn't ready. But I'd learned in my first life that readiness was often just another word for fear of change. This time around, I had the advantage of certainty, the blessing and curse of knowing exactly how far the boundaries could bend before breaking.
"We'll release it next month," I said, already knowing the ripples it would create, the doors it would open. Somewhere across the city, Beyoncé was probably in her own studio, working on tracks that would define an era. Our paths would cross again soon – sooner than last time – but for now, I had to focus on laying the groundwork, on building the future one carefully placed stone at a time.
Rico nodded, trust and ambition warring in his expression. "Your call, maestro. You haven't steered us wrong yet."
I saved the session and stood, my reflection transforming from seasoned producer to teenage prodigy in the studio glass. The weight of two timelines pressed against my shoulders, heavy but no longer crushing. This was the price of tomorrow's dreams – the constant dance between what was, what is, and what could be.
As we left the studio, I hummed the bridge one last time, a private reminder of the delicate balance I walked: between innovation and revelation, between memory and prophecy, between the boy I appeared to be and the man I remembered becoming. The future was watching, just like the song said, but this time, I was watching back.