Breakfast with Maria had always been sacred time, but this morning carried the weight of shared revelation. She moved through her kitchen rituals with practiced grace—eggs crackling in the cast iron skillet her grandmother had brought from South Carolina, coffee percolating in the ancient Mr. Coffee that I knew would finally give up the ghost in August (or would have, in another timeline).
"You're humming that melody again," she said, sliding a plate before me. The eggs were arranged in a perfect crescent, just as she'd done every morning of my childhood—both childhoods now.
"Can't help it," I replied, realizing I had indeed been humming the counter-melody from yesterday's session. "It's like... like it's trying to tell me something."
She sat across from me, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug—the one I'd given her for Mother's Day in my original timeline, but hadn't yet in this one. The sight of its absence hit me with unexpected force.
"What's that look for?" she asked, reading my face with the precision of a studio engineer.
"Nothing. Just..." I gestured vaguely at her plain white mug. "Remembering something that hasn't happened yet."
Her eyes softened. "Must be strange, carrying all those memories nobody else has."
I took a bite of eggs, letting their warmth ground me in the present moment. Through the window, morning sunlight painted Brooklyn in shades of promise. "You know what's stranger? The memories I'm making now—they're better than the ones I brought back with me."
"Because you're not just remembering them," she said, reaching across to squeeze my hand. "You're living them. Really living them, baby. Not just trying to recreate what was."
The truth of it resonated like a perfect chord progression. Last night's session with Beyoncé, Rico's discovery, this breakfast with my mother—none of it had happened in my original timeline, yet somehow it all felt more authentic than the memories I'd carried back with me.
My phone buzzed—a text from Rico: "Studio's prepped. B's team confirmed 10AM. You ready to make history? Again?"
Maria saw my smile. "Go on," she said, standing to clear the plates. "Go make your music. Just remember—"
"Let it breathe between the notes," I finished with her, the words becoming our own private harmony.
She paused at the sink, silhouetted against the morning light. "You know, when your father left, I used to pray for a sign that everything would be okay. Never imagined God would send my boy back from the future to show me." She turned, her smile carrying decades of love across both timelines. "Guess He does work in mysterious ways."
The mention of my father—a ghost in both past and future—added a minor key to the moment. In my original timeline, he'd reappeared just before my first Grammy nomination. I still hadn't decided if I would let that particular history repeat itself.
"Mama," I started, but she waved me off.
"Some things you don't need to tell me, baby. Some futures should stay unwritten until they write themselves."
As I gathered my things for the studio, I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror—seventeen and thirty-five, son and time traveler, producer and prophet. The contradiction didn't seem as sharp as it had yesterday.
"You got your keys?" Maria called, ever the mother regardless of which timeline we were in.
"Yeah," I answered, patting my pocket where they rested alongside my phone and the notebook containing both sets of memories. "Got everything I need."
And standing there, between one moment and the next, between memory and possibility, I realized I did. The future wasn't a score that needed perfect reproduction—it was a lead sheet, waiting for interpretation. And this time around, I had the best band I could ask for helping me arrange it.
The morning sun had fully claimed the sky now, turning the city into a canvas of light and shadow. Somewhere across that urban symphony, a studio was waiting, and with it, the chance to create something that transcended both timelines. Something new. Something true.
Something that could only exist in the space between what was and what could be.
I stepped out into the day, letting the door close behind me with the finality of a closing measure. The city's rhythm surrounded me—car horns and conversation, subway rumble and street corner saxophone—a complex arrangement waiting to be produced into something beautiful.
Time to make some music.