Rico Martinez had learned to read people before he could read music. Growing up in Spanish Harlem, it had been a survival skill first, then a business advantage, and finally an art form. But nothing in his thirty years had prepared him to read a seventeen-year-old boy with thirty-five years of memories.
He sat in his parked Cadillac outside the studio, watching the early morning light paint Manhattan in shades of possibility. The notebook Marcus had shared last night lay open on the passenger seat—pages dense with industry predictions, technological forecasts, and personal histories that hadn't happened yet. Some entries were crossed out now, casualties of an already-changing timeline.
His phone buzzed: *"You waiting for an invitation? Studio ain't gonna prep itself."* - Marcus.
Rico smiled, remembering how just yesterday he'd thought of Marcus as a prodigy, a gifted kid with uncanny instincts. Now he knew better. Every "instinct" had been hard-won knowledge, every "prediction" a memory of things that hadn't happened yet.
The studio's morning silence greeted him like an old friend. He moved through the control room with practiced efficiency, powering up equipment that suddenly felt ancient compared to the future Marcus had described. Digital workstations that would replace analog boards, streaming platforms that would revolutionize distribution, social media networks that would transform promotion—it all seemed like science fiction, except for the absolute certainty in Marcus's eyes when he spoke of it.
"Morning." The voice startled him. Maria Johnson stood in the doorway, holding a thermos. "Thought you might need this."
"You didn't have to—"
"Please." She stepped in, setting the thermos down. "After what my son dumped on us last night? I couldn't sleep anyway."
Rico watched her examine the studio, wondering if she was trying to imagine her teenage son—her middle-aged son—working here twenty years from now. The weight of foreknowledge hung between them like suspended chord.
"How you holding up with all this?" he asked.
Maria traced her fingers along the mixing board. "You know what's strange? It explains so much. The way he changed overnight. The things he says sometimes, like he's lived whole lifetimes we don't know about." She paused. "Because he has."
Through the control room window, they could see the empty recording booth where, hours from now, Beyoncé would stand and sing a melody that Marcus had carried across decades.
"He's still Marcus," Rico said, more to himself than to Maria. "Just... more."
"He's my boy," Maria said firmly. "Whether he's seventeen or thirty-five or both at once. And he needs us now more than ever." She turned to face Rico. "You know what this means for you? Being one of the only people who knows?"
Rico thought about the notebook in his car, about the future Marcus had described where he became one of the industry's most powerful managers. "Means I got to help him carry it. Help him... what did he say? 'Navigate the timeline.'"
"While letting him know it's okay if things turn out different this time around." Maria's voice carried the weight of maternal wisdom. "Because they already are."
The sound of footsteps in the corridor silenced them both. Marcus appeared in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking every bit the teenage producer prodigy the world believed him to be. But now Rico could see the older man in his eyes, the weight of future memories in his stance.
"Y'all talking about me?" Marcus asked, but his smile said he already knew.
"Just discussing how to handle our resident time traveler," Rico said, falling easily into their new dynamic. "Your mama brought coffee."
"And she's leaving for work," Maria added, gathering her purse. But she paused at the door, looking back at her son—both versions of him—with eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. "Baby, just remember—"
"Let the music breathe," Marcus finished with her. "I know, Mama."
After she left, silence settled over the studio like dust motes in morning light. Rico watched Marcus move through the space, adjusting equipment with the ease of muscle memory earned decades hence.
"So," Rico said finally. "We really doing this? Changing the future?"
Marcus looked up from the board, his expression carrying echoes of conversations they wouldn't have for years. "Already changed it. Question is, you ready to help me make it better?"
Through the window, dawn had fully claimed the sky. Rico thought about all the futures described in Marcus's notebook—some preserved, some altered, some yet to be written.
"Better than what was," he said, reaching for the thermos Maria had left. "Better than what could have been."
"Better than what I remember," Marcus agreed, and in that moment, he looked both older and younger than either of his ages.
The studio hummed with potential, like an orchestra tuning up before a revolutionary symphony. In a few hours, it would fill with sound and possibility and carefully guided destiny. But for now, in this quiet morning moment, three people in all the world knew its true conductor had lived the performance once before.
Rico smiled, settling into his chair. Time to make history. Again.