Studio A gleamed like a temple to sound, all brushed metal and polished wood, with equipment worth more than most Bronx apartments. In my first timeline, I hadn't set foot in a room like this until 2012. Now, in 2004, I moved through the space with the ease of a time traveler who'd already memorized every dial and switch.
Her scent arrived before she did—a signature perfume that would become a bestseller in 2016. Beyoncé entered like sunlight breaking through clouds, her presence immediately transforming the studio's carefully maintained neutrality into something electric.
"Marcus Johnson," she said, and hearing my name in her voice sent tremors through both timelines. "Rico says you're the future."
If she only knew. I gestured toward the console, where I'd already loaded the track we'd spent weeks perfecting—a song she wouldn't write for another decade, but one I remembered her performing at Madison Square Garden in my original 2015.
"Maybe we should find out," I said, hitting play.
The opening notes filled the room, a complex lattice of rhythms that drew from West African drums, Brooklyn beats, and production techniques that technically didn't exist yet. I watched her face carefully, remembering how she'd once told me—would tell me?—that this moment had changed everything.
*Midnight in the city of dreams
Where nothing's ever what it seems
Time flowing like golden streams
Through the spaces in between
Watch me dance between the years
Future joy and ancient tears
Baby, every move I make
Is for a love I've yet to take*
Her eyes closed, body swaying slightly to the rhythm. I'd seen this expression before, in another life—the look she got when something clicked, when music transcended sound to become prophecy.
"This is..." she paused, searching for words that wouldn't enter the mainstream lexicon for years. "How did you layer these patterns? It's like you're speaking from tomorrow."
I adjusted a filter, buying time to craft my response. "Sometimes tomorrow speaks through us. We just have to be quiet enough to listen."
She moved closer to the console, designer heels clicking against hardwood in perfect rhythm with the track's subtle hi-hat pattern. "Play it again. From the bridge."
I obliged, watching her settle into the producer's chair beside me. In my original timeline, we'd sat like this hundreds of times, crafting sounds that would define a decade. But that was then. Or later. The paradox of my situation hit me with fresh force.
"There's something familiar about this," she said softly, more to herself than to me. "Like déjà vu, but in reverse. Like I'm remembering something that hasn't happened yet."
My heart skipped. In the original timeline, she'd said almost exactly the same thing, but years from now, in a different studio, under different stars.
*Time is a circle we dance
Round and round in cosmic romance
Every step we've taken before
Leads us back through destiny's door
But baby, in this sacred space
Where future meets past's embrace
I'm learning how to rearrange
The rhythm of destined change*
"The vocals," she said suddenly, standing. "I want to try something."
She moved into the booth, slipping on headphones with practiced grace. I adjusted levels automatically, muscle memory spanning decades that hadn't happened yet.
What followed was magic—the kind that transcends timeline and tradition. She took the melody I'd written with future-her in mind and transformed it into something entirely new, yet hauntingly familiar. Her voice soared through octaves, blending techniques that wouldn't be "invented" for years with raw emotion that belonged to no particular era.
"That's it," I breathed, forgetting for a moment which version of myself I was supposed to be. "That's the missing piece."
She emerged from the booth, her eyes shining with the light of creation. "There's more where that came from. It's like... like you've built a bridge to somewhere I've been trying to reach."
"Maybe we're all trying to reach the same place," I said carefully. "Just taking different paths through time to get there."
Her gaze sharpened, reminding me why she'd become—would become—not just a star but a cultural force. "You talk like someone who knows the way."
"I just follow the music."
"No." She stepped closer, and for a moment I could see both versions of her—the rising star of 2004 and the icon of 2024, superimposed like a double exposure. "You lead it. There's a difference."
The track continued to play, filling the space between us with prophecies disguised as melodies. Outside, New York continued its eternal dance, unaware that in this room, in this moment, timelines were bending toward each other like lovers in a darkened club.
"Let's do another take," I said, reaching for the console. "I hear something in the future we haven't caught yet."
She laughed—that same laugh that would enchant millions—and returned to the booth. As I adjusted the levels, I caught Rico watching through the control room window, his expression unreadable. In the glass's reflection, I saw myself: young face, old eyes, caught between what was and what would be.
The red light came on. The future began to sing.
*In this temple of time and sound
Where lost tomorrows are found
Every note we play today
Echoes what we've yet to say
So hold me in this sacred space
Where destiny shows its face
'Cause baby, in this grand design
Every moment's yours and mine*