Dawn broke over the Bronx like shattered glass, all sharp edges and golden splinters. I hadn't slept, choosing instead to walk the thirty blocks home from the studio, letting the cool morning air clear my head. The demo CD in my jacket pocket felt heavier than it should, weighted with the responsibility of knowledge.
In my previous life, I'd watched as streaming services devoured the industry whole, leaving physical media as nothing more than nostalgic artifacts. But here in 2006, with the future swimming behind my eyes, I understood the precious temporality of this moment. The last great age of tangible music, when a CD could still change the world.
My phone – clunky and primitive by the standards of my memories – buzzed with a message from Rico:
*Label execs want meeting tomorrow. Bring that fire we caught last night. This is it, kid.*
The corner bodega was just opening as I passed, Mr. Ramirez setting out his morning produce. He'd been there in both timelines, a constant in a world I kept reshaping. "Marcus!" he called out. "Your mother said you'd be in the studio. She bought extra coffee this morning, worried about you."
I smiled, remembering how in my original timeline, we'd lost Mr. Ramirez's store to gentrification by 2010. Another thing I could maybe change, if I played my cards right. Success wasn't just about the music anymore – it was about preserving the soul of everything that had made me.
The apartment was quiet when I entered, but a fresh pot of coffee waited in the kitchen. Maria had left her usual note on the counter:
*Proud of you, baby. Double shift today. There's plantains in the fridge.
- Mom*
I pulled out my production notebook, the pages filled with arrangements that wouldn't exist for years. The session with Beyoncé had confirmed something I'd been suspecting: the timeline was more flexible than I'd imagined. Each change created new possibilities, new rhythms in the symphony of cause and effect.
The rough mix from last night played softly through my headphones as I scribbled notes. We'd captured something special in those early morning hours – a sound that bridged past and future, tradition and innovation. Beyoncé's voice carried emotions that transcended time itself:
*Every dream I've ever chased
Leads me back to this same place
Where tomorrow meets today
And memories fade away*
The verse hit differently now. In my original timeline, I'd written similar lyrics for another artist, in another studio, years from now. But here they found their true home, wrapped in Beyoncé's ethereal delivery and stripped-down production that would influence a decade of music yet to come.
My phone buzzed again – this time a message from Beyoncé herself:
*Just listened to the rough mix again. There's something timeless about it. Like it's been waiting to be written. See you at the meeting tomorrow?*
If she only knew how right she was. I'd spent years in another life, learning what worked and what didn't, understanding the delicate balance between innovation and accessibility. Now, with every session, I walked a tightrope between sharing that knowledge and letting the music evolve naturally.
The sun had fully risen now, painting my bedroom wall with strips of light through the venetian blinds. In a few hours, I'd need to be ready for the label meeting. Ready to shape the future while preserving what mattered from the past. Ready to carry the weight of knowing what could be, what had been, what might never be now.
I pulled out a fresh page and began writing the pitch. Some things you couldn't change – the hunger of executives, the politics of the industry. But this time around, I had the advantage of experience. This time, the music would speak for itself, and the future would listen.
The coffee grew cold beside me as I worked, but I barely noticed. In the distance, I could hear the city waking up, its rhythm unchanged by my temporal displacement. Some things remained constant, anchoring me in this new reality I was carefully constructing, one note at a time.