The private lounge at The Plaza hadn't been renovated yet in this timeline—still all dark wood and vintage smoke instead of the minimalist gold it would become in 2010. Beyoncé sat in a leather wingback chair by the window, late morning light casting her in Profile Age brightness before its time. She'd chosen the venue, though in my original timeline, this wouldn't become our meeting spot for another seven years.
"You know what's strange?" she said as I settled into the chair opposite her. "I dreamed about this room last night. Exactly this room, but... different. Newer. You were there, but older. We were discussing an album we haven't—" She stopped, catching herself.
My heart hammered against my ribs. In my first timeline, she'd described that same dream to me in 2018, the night we began recording what would become her most critically acclaimed album.
"The track," I said carefully, steering us toward safer waters.
"The track." She leaned forward, her eyes carrying that same intensity that had launched a thousand headlines in both timelines. "Let's talk about how you produced sounds that shouldn't exist yet."
The waiter arrived with her green tea, my black coffee—an order we'd perfect over years of meetings that hadn't happened yet. She noticed my recognition of the drinks, her gaze sharpening.
"Marcus," she said softly, "who are you? Really?"
Through the window behind her, Manhattan's spires reached toward a sky that felt suddenly too close. My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably Rico, handling the growing media storm—but this moment demanded presence. I'd lived through too many timelines to waste the important ones.
"I'm someone who hears things," I said finally. "Things that are coming. Things that might be."
"No." She set her tea down untouched. "You don't hear them coming. You remember them."
The words hit like a bass drop in an empty room. In my original timeline, we'd had this conversation years later, in a different city, under different stars. But here she was, cutting through time's veil with the same precision that had made her legendary.
"That progression in the bridge," she continued, "I've heard it before. In dreams, maybe, or... somewhere else. Some other when. And the way you arranged the vocals—it's like you knew exactly how my voice would evolve over years of training I haven't had yet."
*In dreams I see tomorrow's light
Streaming through yesterday's night
Every song we've yet to sing
Already spreading silver wings
Through time's transparent curtain call
Where future memories enthrall*
The verses came to me—words she would write, had written, might never write now—and I saw recognition flicker in her eyes.
"Those lyrics," she whispered. "I was going to... I mean, I thought about... Last night I dreamed them."
"Sometimes," I said, choosing my words like notes in a delicate arrangement, "art doesn't flow in a straight line. Sometimes it loops back on itself, like—"
"Like a temporal fugue," she finished, using terminology that wouldn't enter musical theory for another fifteen years.
Outside, a car horn blared in G major, and for a moment I felt time itself hesitate, like a needle hovering over vinyl, unsure which groove to follow.
"The media's calling it revolutionary," I offered. "New production techniques, innovative sound design—"
"Don't." She stood, moving to the window. "Don't pretend this is just about production. Something bigger is happening. I feel it in every note, every rest, every breath between the beats. It's like..." She turned back to me, sunlight haloing her figure. "It's like you're conducting an orchestra through time itself."
I remembered Rico's words from last night, the same metaphor echoing across hours. The synchronicity felt dangerous, like feedback building toward an unstoppable crescendo.
"If I told you the truth," I said slowly, "about where—when—these sounds come from..."
"I'd say I already know." She returned to her chair, but didn't sit. "Because somehow, I think I've always known. Just like I know we've had this conversation before. Or will have it. Or..." She laughed softly. "The tenses get complicated, don't they?"
My phone buzzed again. The world outside was waiting for explanations, for the story behind the sound that had leaked from tomorrow into today. But in this room, in this moment, time held its breath.
"What do we do now?" she asked, but her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
I stood, moving to the vintage Steinway in the corner—the same piano that would witness our first kiss in the original timeline. My fingers found the opening notes of a song we hadn't written yet.
"Now," I said, "we stop pretending we're just making music. And start admitting we're making history. Or remaking it."
She joined me at the piano, her hand finding mine on the keys. The chord we struck rang out across multiple timelines, harmonizing past and future in a single, perfect now.
"Play it again," she whispered. "That song from tomorrow."
And so I did, while outside our temporal sanctuary, the world rushed to catch up with a future that was arriving ahead of schedule.