Chapter 167: Reflections in a Golden Eye
The Columbia Records conference room had changed little in twenty years – or would change little in twenty years, depending on how you held the prism of time to the light. The same abstract art adorned walls that had witnessed the rise and fall of countless musical dreams, while the executives arranged themselves around the table like cards in a high-stakes game.
"Play it again," said Jeffrey Morton, head of A&R, his manicured fingers steepled beneath his chin. It was the third time they'd requested to hear the tracks, each playback drawing us deeper into a moment I'd already lived once before – though last time, I'd been on the other side of thirty and the songs had been different.
*Through the looking glass of yesterday
Time bends like light through crystal seas
What was once has slipped away
Into tomorrow's memories*
The melody floated through the premium speakers, Beyoncé's voice intertwining with the innovative production in ways that made the executives exchange meaningful glances. I caught Rico's subtle nod – he could smell the deal coming, like a shark sensing blood in the water. But I knew better. In my first life, deals like this had come with golden handcuffs attached.
"Mr. Johnson," Morton began, using the honorific that felt strange against my seventeen-year-old ears, "these productions are... unprecedented." He paused, letting the word hang in the air like smoke. "The integration of future-forward sound design with classic soul elements... it's as if you're channeling something that hasn't happened yet."
If he only knew.
"Music is about evolution," I replied, careful to sound young enough to be prodigious but not old enough to be threatening. "Sometimes you have to hear tomorrow to create today."
A silver-haired woman at the end of the table – Sandra Chen, whom I remembered from my other life as one of the industry's shrewdest negotiators – leaned forward. "We're prepared to offer you a development deal. Exclusive rights to your productions, with a focus on developing your work with Ms. Knowles."
And there it was – the same honey trap that had caught so many producers before me. In my previous timeline, I'd signed a similar deal three years from now, losing control of my creative direction in exchange for the illusion of security.
"That's very generous," I said, watching Rico's eyes widen at my hesitation. "But I have a counter-proposal."
The room shifted, subtle as a change in barometric pressure before a storm. In my pocket, my phone vibrated – probably Beyoncé, following up about last night's session. The timing felt prophetic.
"Instead of a traditional development deal," I continued, pulling out a folder I'd prepared with knowledge borrowed from decades of industry experience, "I'm proposing a joint venture. My production company retains creative control and master ownership, while Columbia provides distribution and marketing muscle. A true partnership."
Morton's eyebrows arched toward his receding hairline. "That's... unusually sophisticated for someone your age."
I smiled, thinking of the grey hairs I'd earned learning these lessons the first time around. "Age is just a number. Vision is timeless."
The next hour dissolved into a dance of terms and conditions, with Rico playing his part perfectly – the street-smart manager who'd anticipated his client's moves. But beneath the negotiation, I felt time itself holding its breath. Every term we discussed was a domino being carefully placed, ready to fall in patterns that would ripple through the next two decades.
When we finally emerged from the building, Rico grabbed my shoulders, his face split between awe and confusion. "How?" he demanded. "How did you know to push for those terms? Where did you learn to negotiate like that?"
The late morning sun caught the edges of his question, gilding it with the same light that touched the tops of skyscrapers reaching toward heaven. In both timelines, Rico had been more than a manager – he'd been a brother, a protector, a true believer. He deserved more than deflection.
"Let's just say," I offered, choosing my words like stepping stones across a river, "some knowledge comes to you in dreams."
My phone buzzed again, and this time I checked it. Beyoncé's message glowed on the screen: "Just heard about the meeting. We need to talk about where this is going."
Where this was going. The question echoed through both my lives like a chord progression resolving to an unexpected key. In my pocket, the USB drive still held songs that could reshape the future – our future. But standing there in the canyon of Manhattan's music district, watching Rico call for a celebration lunch, I realized something profound about time travel: The true art isn't in knowing what's coming, but in knowing which changes to embrace and which to let flow naturally.
"You're different lately," Rico said as we walked, his tone softer than usual. "Like you've seen something the rest of us haven't."
I thought of the studio session with Beyoncé, of my mother's worried eyes, of the decades of experience compressed into moments like this one. "Maybe I have," I admitted. "Or maybe I'm just learning to see what's always been there."
Above us, a billboard advertised an album release that, in my original timeline, had changed the course of popular music. But now, with the ripples of our morning meeting spreading outward through time, even that certainty felt fluid. The future was no longer a fixed point but a constellation of possibilities, each one glittering with potential.
The weight of the USB drive in my pocket matched the weight of knowledge in my mind – both heavy with the responsibility of holding tomorrow's songs in today's world. But as Rico hailed a cab and my phone lit up with another message from Beyoncé, I realized that some burdens are really wings in disguise.
After all, isn't that what music is? The weight of emotion made light through melody, the burden of time transformed into rhythm, the heavy future distilled into songs that make us dance?
The cab door opened to whatever came next, and I stepped in, ready to conduct the symphony of two timelines merging into something entirely new.
new book out
Title: Second Chance: Rise from the Dead
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