The diner on 149th hadn't existed in my original timeline past 2007. Yet here I sat, in a booth worn smooth by decades of Bronx dreams, waiting for a man I'd spent two lifetimes trying to understand. My father had chosen this spot – neutral ground, he'd said through Maria, somewhere between his past and my present.
The coffee grew cold before me, its surface reflecting the neon signs that buzzed against the evening sky. In my previous life, our reunion had happened in a sterile hospital room, both of us too old and too tired to bridge the gulf between us. Now time had given us another chance, though only I knew the weight of that gift.
The bell above the door chimed. He looked exactly as I remembered from old photographs – younger than in my original timeline's reunion, but with the same proud stance that Maria said I'd inherited. James Johnson, former session musician, now a music teacher in Newark. The father I'd never known, walking into a future he couldn't possibly understand.
"Marcus," he said, sliding into the booth. His voice carried the same rich tone that had once graced a hundred forgotten records. "You look like your mother."
In my first life, those had been among his last words to me. Now they were among his first.
"The Post article," he continued, pulling the wrinkled newspaper from his jacket. "Universal Records. I always knew you had music in your blood, but this..." He trailed off, years of absence hanging between us like an unresolved chord.
My phone buzzed – Beyoncé, probably with new lyrics for tomorrow's session. I ignored it. Some moments demanded presence, even when you'd lived them before.
"Why now?" I asked, though I knew the answer would be different in this timeline. "Why reach out after all these years?"
He studied his hands – guitarist's hands, shaped by strings and frets and regret. "Been following your work, these past few years. Those underground battles, the production credits. Even caught some of your early stuff on mixtapes. You've got something special, son. Something I walked away from when it got too hard."
The waitress appeared, coffee pot hovering questioningly. In my original timeline, I'd never learned that my father had tracked my career. That knowledge shifted something inside me, like a key change in the middle of a familiar song.
"You know what's funny?" I said, waving off the coffee. "I used to imagine this moment. Used to play it out in my head, all the things I'd say, all the answers I'd demand."
*Time is just a melody
Playing backwards through our dreams
Every note we left unplayed
Echoes louder than it seems*
The lyrics came unbidden – new ones, born from this moment that had never existed before. I grabbed a napkin, jotting them down before they could fade. My father watched the motion with recognition, the same urgency to capture inspiration before it fled.
"Your mother said you're working with Beyoncé," he said, pride and regret mingling in his voice. "That's big. Bigger than anything I ever..."
"It's not about that," I interrupted, surprising myself. In my previous life, I'd held onto anger like armor. But now, with the perspective of two timelines, I saw him differently – not just as the father who left, but as a musician who lost his way. "It's about the music. Always has been."
He nodded, understanding flowing between us. "I heard that new track of yours. The production... it's like nothing I've ever heard. Like you're pulling sounds from somewhere else entirely."
"Maybe I am," I said, allowing myself a small smile. "Maybe we all are, just tuning into different frequencies of the same song."
My phone buzzed again – Rico this time, probably about tomorrow's MTV rehearsal. The future was calling, but for once, I let it wait. In this timeline, in this moment, there was something more important than success.
"I teach music now," he said, fingers unconsciously tapping a rhythm on the formica table. "Help kids find their sound. Been thinking lately about legacy, about what we pass on..."
In my original timeline, I'd never known this about him. The knowledge settled like a new harmony in an old arrangement, changing everything that followed.
"There's this studio session tomorrow," I heard myself saying. "Just development work, nothing fancy. But if you wanted to stop by..."
The words hung between us, a bridge between timelines. In my first life, we'd never had this chance. The reconciliation had come too late, after success had hardened into something that couldn't heal old wounds.
He looked up, hope and hesitation playing across his face. "You sure?"
Outside, the Bronx night pulsed with the rhythm of a million stories being rewritten. Somewhere in the multiverse, another Marcus Johnson was still waiting for this moment, still carrying the weight of unresolved harmonies.
"Yeah," I said, feeling the timeline shift beneath my feet. "I think it's time we made some new memories."
The diner's neon painted shadows across his face as he smiled – a smile I recognized from old mirrors and older dreams. Tomorrow would bring MTV cameras and industry expectations, but tonight was about something simpler: a father and son, finding their way back to the music that had always flowed in both their veins.
Some changes, I was learning, were worth the risk of temporal paradox.