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?
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