Chapter 60: Ghosts in the Machine
The studio bathroom mirror showed a face I was still getting used to—no grey at the temples, no laugh lines around the eyes. I splashed cold water on my seventeen-year-old skin and tried to quiet the thunder in my chest. In my old timeline, I'd just heard the finished version of "Tomorrow's Gold" for the first time, the one that would play on urban radio stations in 2024, tinny and compressed. But this version—this version could be different. Better.
When I returned to the control room, Rico had switched to the drum tracks, isolating the kicks and snares I'd spent three hours recording. My mother had left, but her presence lingered in the steam rising from the food containers and the faint scent of her perfume—Estée Lauder Beautiful, discontinued in 2019, another ghost from a future I was trying to rewrite.
"These drums," Rico said, shaking his head. "Man, I've never heard anything like this. How'd you get that snap on the two and four?"
I remembered the technique because I'd stolen it from a producer named Maxwell Kane in 2016. He'd shown me one drunk night in his Calabasas studio, both of us riding high on his third platinum plaque. Maxwell wouldn't invent this sound for another twelve years, but here it was, echoing through Rico's studio in 2004.
"Just some unconventional mic placement," I said, the lie smooth as silk. "Plus a little trick with the compression."
Rico nodded, but his eyes were shrewd. He'd been watching me lately, noting the little things—how I anticipated industry shifts before they happened, how I seemed to know which equipment would be worthwhile investments. Last week, he'd caught me humming a hook that wouldn't be written until 2010.
"Maria's asking about the publishing split," he said casually, but I caught the real question beneath.
In my previous life, I'd lost everything in a bad publishing deal. Spent five years fighting it in court while my mother worked double shifts to help with lawyer fees. The memory of her exhausted face, lined with worry, was sharper than any platinum record.
"Standard split won't work," I said, pulling up the contract template on Rico's computer. "We need to structure this different. Trust me on this one."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with the weight of future knowledge. Rico studied me for a long moment, and I saw the questions forming behind his eyes. The same questions my mother had carefully avoided asking that morning I'd woken up with twenty years of memories that hadn't happened yet.
"You're different," he said finally. "From when I first met you. Sometimes you talk like..."
"Like what?"
"Like you've seen how this all plays out."
I turned back to the console, adjusting faders that didn't need adjusting. Outside the studio window, a passing car's headlights swept across the room, briefly illuminating the space like a flashbulb from a future photo shoot. In the momentary brightness, I caught Rico's reflection in the glass, younger than I remembered him, hungry for the success I knew awaited him—if I played this right.
"The game's changing, Rico," I said carefully. "Streaming, social media, NFTs—" I stopped myself. Too soon for that last one. "The whole industry's about to flip. Old rules won't apply."
"And you know this how?"
I thought of Maxwell Kane, who in my timeline would die of an overdose in 2021, his innovations forgotten by everyone except a handful of producers. I thought of Maria Chen's Grammys, gathering dust in her mother's house after the accident. I thought of my own mistakes, stretched across two decades I was trying to rewrite.
"Call it instinct," I said, reaching for the brass tracks. The Seoul jazz line was ready to be born, twelve years early. "Some things you just know in your soul."
Rico watched as I began laying down the horn arrangement, his expression shifting from skepticism to that familiar awe I'd seen in my other life. Behind him, the analog meters danced, painting tomorrow's patterns in today's light.
*When the future comes knocking,
With wisdom to spare,
Will you open the door
To the dreams waiting there?
Tomorrow's gold, tomorrow's gold,
The past is getting old...*
Maria's voice floated through the speakers again, and I closed my eyes, letting myself drift between timelines. In one world, this song would save lives. In another, it had destroyed them. But in this moment, in this studio in 2004, it was still pure potential—a ghost of what was, what would be, what might never be.
I opened my eyes and began to mix.
new book out
Title: Second Chance: Rise from the Dead
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