Studio A had always been my favorite room, even in my previous timeline. Something about the way sound moved through the space, how the morning light painted shadows across the acoustic panels. But today it felt different – charged with the electricity of destiny rewritten.
Beyoncé sat cross-legged on the studio couch, her notebook open to a fresh page. In my original life, I'd only seen her work like this years later – unguarded, raw, the superstar facade stripped away to reveal the pure artist beneath. The intimacy of the moment felt almost like trespassing across timelines.
"Listen to this progression," she said, moving to the piano in the corner. Her fingers found the keys with practiced grace. "It's been haunting me since our last session."
The melody was hauntingly familiar – not from my past life, but from something that hadn't been written yet. The chord structure echoed a song that, in my original timeline, wouldn't exist until 2019. Another temporal bleed, another sign that the walls between then and now were growing thinner.
*Memories dance like shadows on the wall
Yesterday's dreams still standing tall
Time keeps spinning like a broken record
Playing songs we ain't heard yet*
She looked up at me, eyes bright with creative fire. "That last line... it just came to me. Something about your energy, Marcus. Like you're tuned into a frequency the rest of us can't hear yet."
If she only knew how literal that observation was. I turned to the console, hiding the weight of knowledge in my expression. "Let's build on that. The idea of hearing tomorrow's songs today – there's something universal there."
Rico burst in, interrupting the moment with his characteristic whirlwind energy. "MTV wants you both. Live performance, next week. They're calling it 'The Future of Sound.' You can't make this stuff up!"
The irony almost made me laugh. In my previous life, I'd watched that same MTV segment from my mother's couch, watching different artists, different songs. Now here I was, rewriting television history alongside the very people I'd once only dreamed of working with.
"We'll need something special," Beyoncé said, already scribbling new notes. "Something that shows them why Universal was right to bet on you."
I pulled up the session from earlier, the skeleton of what we'd been building. In my original timeline, I'd spent years developing these production techniques. Now I was introducing them years ahead of schedule, knowing exactly how they would reshape the industry's sonic landscape.
"What if we take that melody you just played," I suggested, "but we treat it like this..."
My fingers danced across the console, applying processing chains that wouldn't become industry standard for another decade. The sound that emerged was familiar to my future ears but revolutionary to 2006 – a blend of analog warmth and digital precision that bridged past and future.
Beyoncé's eyes widened. "That's... how did you even think to do that?"
"Sometimes," I said carefully, "you have to trust that the music already knows where it wants to go. We're just helping it get there."
Rico had stopped his usual pacing, transfixed by what he was hearing. "Man, when I first saw you in that basement battle... I knew you had something special, but this? This is like you've seen the future of music or something."
The truth hung heavy in the air, impossible to share. Instead, I focused on the arrangement, layering in elements that would both satisfy current tastes and push them forward. Each decision was a careful balance – innovation without alienation, progress without paradox.
My phone buzzed: a message from Maria.
*Your father called. He heard the news. Wants to meet. Up to you, baby.*
Another deviation from the original timeline. In my first life, he hadn't reached out until 2015, long after the moment for reconciliation had passed. Now here was another chance to heal old wounds, to rewrite not just music history but family history as well.
Beyoncé must have noticed my expression change. "Everything okay?"
"Just... family stuff," I said, tucking the phone away. "Let's focus on the music."
She nodded, understanding in her eyes. In both timelines, she'd always had an almost supernatural ability to read people. "Family's complicated. But sometimes the right song can say what words can't."
The morning light had shifted, painting new patterns across the studio walls. Outside, the city moved to rhythms it had always known, unaware that in this room, we were quietly revolutionizing its soundtrack. Every choice, every knob turned, every note sung was another brush stroke on the canvas of a future I was carefully repainting.
"From the bridge," I said into the talkback mic, pushing down the weight of temporal responsibility. "Let's make them hear tomorrow."
The red recording light bloomed to life, and with it, another page of history began to rewrite itself.