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Echoes of Tomorrow: 2015
Chapter 1: The Unsilent Void
The sterile hum of the Neve console was a familiar lullaby to Alex Vance. It was late, the sprawling Los Angeles skyline a glittering, indifferent tapestry beyond his studio window. At twenty-five, he was a ghost in the machine of the music industry – a critically respected composer and producer, but not quite a household name. His name was on the liner notes of platinum albums, his arrangements filled stadiums, but the spotlight, he'd always preferred, belonged to the artists. Tonight, he was wrestling with a bridge for a new pop sensation, the melody eluding him like a forgotten dream. He ran a hand through his already dishevelled dark hair, a sigh escaping him. Burnout was a shadow that often lurked at the edges of his creativity.
He pushed back from the console, the chair wheels groaning in protest. Maybe a walk, some air. As he stood, a peculiar, almost sub-sonic thrum resonated through the floor, through his bones. The lights in the studio flickered once, twice, then a blinding, cerulean flash erupted behind his eyelids, even though they were wide open. It wasn't painful, just… absolute. An impossible silence descended, sucking the very air from his lungs, and then an equally impossible sensation of falling, tumbling, yet being utterly still.
Darkness. Then, awareness.
Alex's first coherent thought was that he'd hit his head. Hard. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes. He was lying on something soft. Too soft. His expensive studio chair was ergonomic, not plush. He cracked an eye open. Sunlight. Blaring, intrusive sunlight, slicing through unfamiliar blue curtains.
He sat bolt upright, the world tilting precariously. This wasn't his minimalist downtown loft. This was… his childhood bedroom. The one he hadn't slept in for a decade. The faded band posters on the wall – Arctic Monkeys, The Killers, Muse – were yellowed at the edges, exactly as he remembered them from… when?
His limbs felt strangely light, almost gangly. He looked down at his hands. Smaller. Smoother. The calluses from years of guitar playing were fainter. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at his skin. He scrambled off the bed, his reflection in the dresser mirror stopping him dead.
A boy stared back. Fifteen years old, lanky, with that awkward haircut his mom had insisted on. His eyes – his eyes, but younger, wider, more terrified – were the only recognizable feature.
"No. No, no, no." The voice that came out was higher, cracking. His voice from 2000-and-something.
"Alex? You finally up, sleepyhead?" His mom's voice. Clear as a bell from downstairs. Her voice, unchanged from what he remembered before… before what? Before now.
He stumbled downstairs, a ghost in his own past. His parents were in the kitchen, looking younger than they should. His dad, reading a physical newspaper – a newspaper! – was younger, his hair less grey. His mom was humming as she made pancakes, the same brand of syrup on the counter.
"Morning, sweetie. Big day today, first day of sophomore year!" she chirped, oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding before her.
Sophomore year. That would make it… 2015. Ten years. He'd somehow been flung back ten years.
His phone. He needed his phone. He patted his pockets – his younger self's jeans – and found an iPhone. An iPhone 6. Ancient. He fumbled with it, his 2025 muscle memory struggling. Wi-Fi connected. Okay. Music. He needed music. Something to ground him. His lifeline.
His fingers flew, almost by instinct. Spotify… no, Apple Music in 2015 was more likely. He found the app. His carefully curated playlists from 2025, the ones holding thousands of hours of his life, were, of course, gone. He typed "Billie Eilish" into the search bar. No results.
A tremor ran through him. Okay, maybe too niche for this specific moment in time, even if "Ocean Eyes" should have been somewhere if this was right.
He tried "Eminem." No results.
"NF." Nothing.
"Gracie Abrams." Zero.
His breathing quickened. Ed Sheeran. Safe bet. He'd been around. Alex typed "Shape of You." No results. "Perfect." No results. "Photograph…" Ah, "Photograph" was there but not the Ed Sheeran one!
A cold dread, far worse than the initial disorientation, began to creep in. He searched for some of the biggest defining anthems of the late 2010s and early 2020s. Lewis Capaldi's "Someone You Loved." Harry Styles' "As It Was." Nothing. The radio, quickly turned on, played generic pop that sounded… dated, even for 2015. It was fine, competent, but missing the spark, the innovation, the emotional depth he knew defined the hits from his future.
This world looked the same, felt the same, but its soul – its soundtrack – was hollow. Muted.
He sank onto the sofa, the iPhone slipping from his grasp. The major hits, the cultural phenomena, the songs that had defined a generation in his timeline… they simply didn't exist here.
As sheer, unadulterated panic threatened to engulf him, a faint, almost imperceptible chime resonated, not in his ears, but within his mind. A translucent screen, like a heads-up display only he could see, flickered into existence at the edge of his vision. Words formed:
[System Online: The Maestro's Codex initializing...]
Then, below it, like entries in a meticulously organized library:
Billie Eilish - Ocean Eyes (2015 - Unreleased in this timeline)
Ed Sheeran - Shape of You (2017 - Unreleased in this timeline)
Lewis Capaldi - Someone You Loved (2018 - Unreleased in this timeline)
Olivia Rodrigo - drivers license (2021 - Unreleased in this timeline)
The list scrolled, impossibly long, impossibly detailed. A catalog. A database of every song he knew, every song that was… missing.
Alex stared, not at the physical room, but at this impossible internal interface. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, deafening silence of a world without its most beloved songs. What was happening? And what, in God's name, was he supposed to do with this?
Chapter 2: The Ghost in the Machine
The iridescent letters of the [Maestro's Codex] pulsed softly in Alex's mind-vision. He could still see his childhood bedroom through it, a semi-transparent overlay. He blinked. It remained. He closed his eyes tight, then opened them. Still there. This wasn't a hallucination born of shock.
He tentatively thought, 'Search: Ed Sheeran - Thinking Out Loud.'
Instantly, the display shifted.
[Ed Sheeran - Thinking Out Loud]
Original Release Date (Timeline A): June 2014 (Album: X)
Key: D Major
Tempo: 79 BPM
Instrumentation: Electric Guitar (clean, with slight reverb), Bass, Drums (soft, brush-like), Strings (backing), Vocals (lead, harmony).
Full Orchestration Available: [Access]
Lyrical Content (Full): [Access]
Production Notes (Original - Jake Gosling): [Access] - Includes specific mic placements, EQ settings on key elements, master chain suggestions.
Timeline A Popularity Index (Peak): 98.7/100
Current Timeline Suitability Score (2015): 95.2/100 (High appeal due to acoustic prominence and timeless lyrical themes).
Alex's breath hitched. It wasn't just a list. It was… everything. The DNA of the song laid bare. He thought '[Access Lyrical Content]' and the full lyrics scrolled by, perfectly formatted. He then tried '[Access Production Notes]'. Technical details flooded his vision – details only a seasoned producer would fully grasp, details he did grasp. This was an insane level of detail.
"Alex? Pancakes are getting cold!" His mom's voice, a cheerful anchor in the storm of unreality.
He mentally commanded the System to minimize, and the display vanished, though he felt its latent presence. He swallowed hard. "Coming!"
Breakfast was a surreal blur. His parents chatted about his dad's upcoming business trip, about Aunt Carol's new dog. Normal, mundane 2015 chatter. Alex picked at his pancakes, his mind racing. Every song they absentmindedly hummed along to on the small kitchen radio was generic, forgettable. A Top 40 from a world devoid of true emotional powerhouses.
His father, a shrewd but kind man even in this timeline's younger iteration, peered at him over his newspaper. "You alright, son? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Alex forced a weak smile. "Just… first day jitters, Dad. Sophomore year, you know." If only you knew the half of it.
His dad, David Vance, clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. You've always been a smart kid. Just… try to focus a bit more on the schoolwork this year, eh? Less time lost in your headphones with those… well, whatever it is you listen to."
Alex flinched internally. In his original timeline, by fifteen, he was already deep into music production software, annoying his parents with booming bass and odd synth experiments. Here, apparently, he was just a typical teen with "headphones." What had this version of him been listening to? The System didn't seem to catalog his personal memories, only objective musical data.
The bus ride to Northwood High was an exercise in sensory overload. The fashion – a jarring mix of what 2025 would deem "vintage" and simply outdated. The slang. The phones – clunkier, smaller screens. He felt like an anthropologist studying a familiar yet alien tribe. During first period English – Romeo and Juliet, again – he discreetly reactivated the System.
He searched for artists he himself had worked with in 2025, relatively unknown indie darlings whose careers he'd helped launch. Nothing. It was as if the entire branch of musical evolution he knew had been pruned from this reality's tree.
Then, a thought struck him, cold and electrifying. If these songs were gone, what about the foundational influences? The Beatles? Still there, according to the System. Led Zeppelin? Present. Mozart? Some Intact but not all. It seemed to be a divergence point, somewhere in the late 20th or early 21st century, specifically affecting popular music of this generation and the one immediately following.
Lunchtime. He found an empty corner of the bustling, cacophonous cafeteria. He brought up the Codex again, scrolling, scrolling, the sheer volume of missing music making his head spin.
All of "Shape of You" to "Peaches." Every verse Ed Sheeran poured into "Perfect." The Weeknd's unforgettable "Blinding Lights." Shawn Mendes' breakthrough "Stitches." Lewis Capaldi's heartbreaking "Someone You Loved."
This wasn't just a few missing hits. This was a cultural void. An entire generation of defining artistry, erased.
And he, Alex Vance, a displaced composer with a head full of melodies from a future that no longer existed for him, was the sole archivist.
The System pinged softly, a new notification appearing:
[Analysis Complete: Current Timeline Musical Landscape - Summary]
Dominant Genres: EDM (mainstream, somewhat formulaic), Pop (traditional structures, less lyrical experimentation), Indie Rock (retaining early 2000s influences), Hip-Hop (regionally strong but lacking cross-genre fusion innovations seen in Timeline A).
Opportunity Identified: Significant vacuum for introspective, lyrically complex pop; artist-driven narratives; fusion genres.
Recommendation: Begin with broadly appealing, emotionally resonant tracks with proven Timeline A success to establish presence.
Alex stared at the "Opportunity Identified." His original career had been about meticulously crafting sounds, helping artists find their voice. Here… here the voices themselves were silent. The opportunity wasn't just to produce; it was to introduce. To recreate.
The weight of it was crushing, yet beneath it, a flicker. Not of excitement, not yet. But of purpose. A terrifying, audacious purpose. He was an experienced music composer and producer. This System wasn't just giving him songs; it was giving him the blueprints.
He thought back to his studio in 2025. The years spent mastering Pro Tools, Ableton Live, learning music theory until it was as natural as breathing. He knew how to build a song from the ground up, how to coax emotion from a melody, how to arrange instrumentation to make a track soar. He wasn't just some kid with a magical cheat sheet. He had the skills. The System was the ultimate reference library, but he was the one who would have to understand, interpret, and bring these sounds to life in this new world.
He needed a starting point. Something powerful, familiar, and relatively easy to replicate with the basic tools a fifteen-year-old in 2015 might conceivably have access to (or could get his father to invest in).
He brought up Ed Sheeran again. "Thinking Out Loud." Simple elegance, undeniable emotion. The System even provided popularity metrics relative to the 2015 soundscape here. High compatibility.
A plan, wild and improbable, began to form in the ruins of his old life. This wasn't just about surviving a temporal anomaly. This was about… revolutionizing a silent world. And maybe, just maybe, finding his own voice again in the process. The silence felt less like an ending, and more like a blank page. An unnervingly blank, stadium-sized page.
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