Bab 94: Studio
Studio 7 loomed before me, its brick facade unchanged from either timeline. I'd arrived an hour early, watching yellow cabs splash through puddles left by the morning rain. My hard drive felt heavy in my bag, weighted with songs pulled from a future now unmade.
The security guard – Marcus with the graying temples, I remembered from decades ahead – nodded me through. "They're waiting in Studio C," he said, though I knew it wasn't time yet. In this timeline, we hadn't yet become friends who shared dominoes and stories between sessions. That would come later. Or maybe never. The butterfly effect of temporal manipulation was a melody even I couldn't fully predict.
The hallway stretched before me, its walls lined with gold and platinum records that told the story of music's past. Soon, some of mine would hang here – different ones this time, perhaps. Better ones. I hummed softly as I walked:
*Footsteps echo down these halls*
*Future's whispers bounce off walls*
*Every doorway holds a key*
*To what was and what could be*
*In the spaces between sound*
*Lost tomorrows can be found*
*Threading needles through time's eye*
*Sewing futures in reply*
Studio C's control room was empty, but ghosts of sessions yet to come seemed to linger in the air. I set up methodically, plugging in my drive, checking levels that wouldn't peak for years. The SSL console gleamed under the soft lighting, its faders ready to mix realities as easily as tracks.
"You're early."
I turned, knowing the voice before I saw her. Beyoncé stood in the doorway, dressed casually in jeans and a white button-down that somehow managed to look both comfortable and couture. In my previous timeline, our first meeting had been years from now, both of us older, more guarded. Now she moved into the room with the confident grace of a woman at the height of her powers, but with eyes that held curiosity rather than caution.
"Time is precious," I said, the words carrying weight she couldn't yet understand. "Especially in this industry."
She studied me for a moment, then smiled – that megawatt smile that would launch a thousand magazines. "Rico said you were different. He didn't mention you were wise."
"Not wise," I corrected, turning back to the console. "Just... experienced."
She settled into the chair beside me, close enough that I could smell her perfume – Givency, the same scent she'd wear years from now at our first wedding. Would wear. Might wear. Tenses became complicated when you were rewriting love stories.
"Play me something," she said. Not a request. Not quite a command. An invitation.
I pulled up the first track, the one I'd spent weeks calibrating to this exact moment. The intro built slowly – elements of trap music that hadn't been invented yet, layered with soul samples that would feel timeless in any era. Then the beat dropped, and I heard her soft intake of breath.
*Through the hourglass of maybe*
*Time flows both strong and shady*
*What was once and what will be*
*Dance together, wild and free*
*Every moment leaves its trace*
*Every choice creates its space*
*In the rhythms of the heart*
*Future endings have their start*
"The production is..." she paused, searching for words. "It's like you're sampling the future."
If she only knew.
"Music exists in all times at once," I said, watching her fingers tap unconsciously against the console's armrest. "We just have to be ready to hear it."
She leaned forward as the bridge approached – the section I'd built specifically for her voice, though she couldn't know that yet. But I saw the recognition in her eyes, the way her breath caught slightly as the harmonies opened up into spaces that seemed designed for her range.
"You wrote this with someone in mind," she said. Not a question.
"Everything I write is with purpose," I replied, letting the track fade to silence. "Some songs know their destiny before they're finished."
She turned to face me fully then, and I saw it – the same spark that had ignited in another timeline, in another studio, years from now. Some connections transcend time's boundaries.
"The benefit concert," she said. "I want you to produce my set."
In my pocket, my phone buzzed with a text I knew would be from Rico, probably about the label contract. But that could wait. The future was reconstructing itself around this moment, this studio, this conversation.
"Some collaborations," I said carefully, "are meant to be."
Outside, New York traffic created its eternal rhythm track, while inside Studio C, two timelines began to merge into something new, something better. I had changed the when of our meeting, but the why remained constant as gravity.
The next track was already cued up – a bridge between what had been and what could be. I reached for the fader, ready to let tomorrow's music fill today's air.
Some loves are worth living twice to get right.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone