The afternoon sun slanted through my apartment windows, catching dust motes that danced like visual representations of the melodies still swirling in my head. I sat at my production desk, the familiar glow of the DAW screen illuminating the space between memory and possibility. The rough mix from our session played through my monitors:
*Time keeps slipping through my hands
Like diamonds through the glass
Future's writing in the sand
Footprints from the past*
Her voice, even unmastered, carried the weight of destiny. I adjusted the compression settings, remembering how this track would sound on radio stations around the world. In my previous life, I'd heard it in passing, admired it from afar. Now, my fingerprints were all over its DNA.
The intercom buzzed – three short bursts. Rico's signal.
"Door's open," I called through the speaker, already saving multiple versions of the session file. Some habits transcend timelines.
Rico entered like a thundercloud in Gucci loafers, his face carrying the particular expression I'd learned to associate with industry earthquakes. "You need to sit down for this."
"I am sitting."
"Columbia's heard the rough cut."
The air in the room shifted. In my original timeline, this moment had played out differently – or rather, hadn't played out at all. I'd been a nobody then, working on tracks that would never make it past local radio.
"And?" I kept my voice steady, though my fingers instinctively moved to the mixing console, a pianist's nervous tic.
"They want the whole album. Not just her album – they want you. Exclusive production deal. Seven figures, Marcus. The kind of number that changes area codes."
The track continued playing softly in the background, its prophectic lyrics now taking on new meaning:
*Some say fortune's just a game
Of chances thrown like dice
But every road leads to your name
In paradise*
I remembered this moment from my other life – not this exact scene, but its emotional twin. The first big offer, the contract that seemed too good to be true. Back then, I'd signed without reading the fine print, eager to escape the Bronx's gravity. The resulting golden handcuffs had taken years to break.
"What's the catch?" I asked, though I already knew. There always was one.
Rico's smile flickered. "Full rights. Everything you produce, they own. Including..."
"Including the new production techniques," I finished. The very innovations I'd brought back with me, the future I was carefully seeding into the present.
Through the window, a plane traced its path across the Manhattan skyline. Somewhere out there, Beyoncé was probably listening to our session, feeling the same electricity we'd captured in those velvet hours before dawn. This was the moment – the fulcrum point between what had been and what could be.
"They want an answer by midnight," Rico added, his voice soft with understanding. "It's a hell of an offer, Marcus."
I turned back to the mixing board, fingers finding the fader that controlled her vocal track. In the original timeline, Columbia's iron grip on production rights had stifled a generation of innovators. But that was before. Before I knew better. Before I had a second chance.
"Call them back," I said, watching the meters dance. "Tell them I'll do it for half."
Rico's intake of breath was sharp. "Half? Marcus, have you lost your—"
"Half the money, but I keep the rights to the production techniques. Non-negotiable." I swiveled to face him. "And I want it written in that any artist I work with has first right of refusal on their masters after seven years."
"They'll never go for it."
"They will." I smiled, remembering conversations that wouldn't happen for another decade. "Because B will insist on it."
Rico stared at me for a long moment, his expression cycling through disbelief, calculation, and finally, dawning comprehension. "You're playing a longer game than I thought."
"You have no idea."
The track reached its bridge, the part where past and future collided in a symphony of impossibility. I'd written it with two sets of memories, with knowledge that spanned decades of industry evolution. Now it would serve as a blueprint for something entirely new.
"Make the call," I said, turning back to the console. "And Rico? Tell them to send the paperwork to my mother's lawyer first."
He laughed – the rich, full laugh that in another life had soundtracked countless studio sessions yet to come. "Maria's going to read them to filth."
"That's the idea."
After he left, I sat in the growing darkness, letting the music wash over me. Outside, the city lights began their nightly dance, each window a star in an urban constellation. Somewhere out there, two timelines were converging, creating something newer and truer than either had been alone.
I picked up my phone and typed out a message to Beyoncé: "The future isn't written yet. But the beat goes on."
Her reply came moments later: "Then let's write it in permanent ink."
I smiled, remembering a conversation we hadn't had yet, in a future that was changing with every passing second. Sometimes the best way to honor a memory is to let it become something new. The track played on, carrying the weight of tomorrow in its carefully crafted grooves.