The morning newspaper felt foreign in my hands – a relic of a time I'd already lived through once. There, on page six of the New York Post, the headline seemed to ripple: "Universal Signs Unknown Bronx Producer in Multi-Million Dollar Deal." In my previous timeline, there had been no headline, no story, no recognition. Just another Tuesday in 2006.
The bodega's coffee burned bitter against my tongue as Mr. Ramirez proudly pointed to the article from behind his counter. "My wife already called her whole family. 'That Marcus,' she told them, 'he's been buying his café con leche here since he was tall enough to reach the counter!'"
I smiled, remembering how in my original timeline, I hadn't visited the bodega that morning. I'd been too ashamed after the failed meeting, too afraid to face the neighborhood that had believed in me. Now, the familiar scent of fresh bread and yesterday's dreams filled the small store with possibility.
My phone – a flip model that felt like a toy compared to what I remembered – buzzed against my hip:
*Studio A. 9AM. Bring that magic. - B*
Even her text messages carried melody. I'd forgotten how different communication felt in this era, how each word seemed to carry more weight when you had to pay per character. In my previous life, our collaborations had been coordinated through layers of management and PR teams. Now, it was just us, the music, and the future I was carefully reconstructing.
The walk to the studio took me past St. Mary's Park, where local kids were already gathering with their makeshift dance crews. One of them, a skinny boy with worn sneakers and fierce eyes, was working through a routine that wouldn't become popular for another decade. Another ripple in the timeline – the future bleeding backward through the streets of the Bronx.
*Time keeps slipping through my fingers
Like memories yet to be
Each moment that lingers
Shows me what I couldn't see*
The lyrics came unbidden, a new melody forming in my mind. I recorded it quickly on my phone's primitive voice memo function, remembering with a pang how many ideas I'd lost in my first life because I'd been too proud to sing into a flip phone on a public street.
The studio lobby was different today – charged with an energy that made the air feel electric. Word had spread fast. Danny, the night manager, snapped to attention when I walked in, his usual headphones absent.
"Mr. Johnson! Saw the news, man. That's what I'm talking about! Keeping it real for the Bronx!"
In my original timeline, Danny had moved to LA after the studio closed in 2008. I wondered if that future still held, or if the butterfly effects of my success would keep this piece of home intact.
The elevator ride to Studio A gave me seventeen floors to compose myself. In my memories, this day had been spent in my bedroom, ignoring calls and drowning in self-doubt. Now, the weight of success pressed against my chest just as heavily as failure once had, but for entirely different reasons.
The doors opened to reveal Rico, already in full manager mode, pacing the hallway with two phones pressed to his ears. He spotted me and his eyes lit up with a mixture of pride and something else – curiosity, maybe, about how his young protégé had handled that meeting with such impossible poise.
"Listen," he said into one phone, ending both calls abruptly. "The Post piece is just the beginning. Rolling Stone wants an interview. MTV's calling. But first..." He gestured to Studio A's door with a flourish. "Your girl's got ideas about the follow-up single. Says she couldn't sleep last night, kept hearing melodies."
My heart stuttered. In my previous life, Beyoncé and I hadn't collaborated until years later, when we were both different people. Now, standing in this familiar hallway that felt simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar, I realized just how much the timeline had shifted.
"You ready for this?" Rico asked, his hand on the door handle.
I thought of Maria, probably just starting her hospital shift, the newspaper tucked safely in her locker. Thought of Mr. Ramirez and his proud smile. Of Danny downstairs, dreaming of his own future in music. Of all the lives that would change because this time, this one time, I got it right.
"Yeah," I said, feeling the weight of both timelines pressing against my shoulders. "I'm ready."
The studio door opened, and there she was, surrounded by scattered sheets of lyrics and a future that was rewriting itself with every breath. The morning sun through the control room windows caught her profile, and for a moment, time seemed to suspend itself – past and future converging in a single, perfect note.
"I figured it out," she said without looking up. "That thing your production does, that feeling like you're hearing tomorrow? I want to capture that. Want to bottle it up and share it with the world."
If she only knew.
I settled into my chair at the console, fingers finding their home on the faders. Outside, the city was waking up to news of my success, but in here, time was fluid, malleable. We were writing a future that had never existed before, one note at a time.
"Alright," I said, pressing record. "Let's make history."
Again.