Jim's fingers closed around the two-way radio, its substantial weight anchoring him to the moment. Not the temperamental walkie-talkie from the Marquee that crackled and died mid-sentence, but a professional unit with buttons that clicked with satisfying precision. The textured grip felt oddly familiar beneath his thumb, despite never having used this particular model before.

  "Sound check for the guest vocalist in fifteen minutes," he said into the microphone. His voice bounced back at him from speakers throughout the theatre, creating a momentary echo in the vast space. "Lighting team, we need the specials adjusted stage right for his position."

  "Copy that," came the immediate response, a woman's voice crisp through the speaker. "Adjusting specials now."

  Jim lowered the radio, watching as technicians moved with practiced efficiency across the lighting rig. At the Marquee, communication meant hoarse throats from shouting or wasted minutes tracking people through narrow corridors. Here, each professional seamlessly performed their role without his constant oversight.

  The radio buzzed. "Security to Miami, we've got the VIP group at the stage door. Tour guide says they're scheduled for the backstage experience package."

  "I'll meet them personally," Jim replied, the words flowing from his lips before he'd consciously formed them. "Five minutes."

  He crossed the stage, each step sending vibrations through the wooden flooring. Not the dead thud of the Marquee's dubious carpentry, but the resonant response of properly seasoned timber. The vibrations traveled through his shoes, the structure itself seeming to breathe with musical potential.

  The Hammersmith's air carried a pleasant chill against his skin—actual functioning air conditioning, not the Marquee's oppressive heat that turned breath heavy and labored. Jim inhaled deeply. Here, distinct scents separated themselves: the warm wood of the stage, the faint chemical tang of lighting gels heating under lamps, the subtle hint of furniture polish from the auditorium seats.

  Passing the dressing rooms, he caught the unmistakable scent of theatrical makeup—not hastily applied personal cosmetics, but specialized stage products. Waxy foundations mingled with chalky powder and the sharp bite of spirit gum adhesive. Through one door wafted the citrusy burst of cologne that could only be Roger's.

  Jim paused at the catering table, his stomach growling in reminder of his missed lunch. Nothing like the Marquee's tepid beer and suspicious sandwiches here. Fresh fruits arranged in cascading patterns. Cheeses with proper rinds. Sandwiches constructed with evident care. He grabbed what appeared to be smoked salmon on dark rye and took a bite as he walked.

  The salmon melted on his tongue—delicate smoke against earthy bread, fatty richness balanced by bright dill and salty capers, with cucumber adding a satisfying crunch. He wiped his fingers on a cloth napkin—actual fabric, not paper—as he approached security.

  "They've just arrived, Mr. Beach," said the guard with a respectful nod toward the door.

  Jim straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, and pushed through the door. His eyes immediately locked onto Claudia, standing at the center of a small group, the silver crown pendant gleaming at her throat exactly as it had at the Marquee. Recognition jolted through him like an electrical current.

  Before he could process this impossibility, he noticed her companions. A bearded man stood slightly behind her, his stillness accentuating his observant gaze. Beside him fidgeted a lankier figure wearing a backward baseball cap, bouncing on the balls of his feet as his eyes darted everywhere.

  "Welcome to the Hammersmith," Jim said, extending his hand. "I'm Jim Beach, the band's manager."

  "This is our VIP group," Claudia replied professionally, though something flickered behind her eyes. "They've purchased the premium backstage experience."

  Jim held her gaze a beat longer than necessary, searching for acknowledgment. The slight tension around her eyes told him what her words wouldn't.

  "Excellent. We'll make it worth their while," Jim said carefully. "We've prepared access to the sound check as well."

  "Awesome!" The lanky young man's American accent burst forth. "I'm Jay, and this is Bob. We're totally stoked for this, right, Bob?"

  Bob offered only a slight nod, his eyes moving between Jim and Claudia with quiet assessment.

  "I believe we've met before," Jim said to Claudia, unable to help himself. "At the Marquee Club, wasn't it?"

  Something complicated crossed Claudia's features—surprise, then what might have been relief, before professional composure reclaimed her expression.

  "I don't believe so," she said steadily, though her eyes told a different story. "This is my first time working with your organization, Mr. Beach."

  Jim's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the radio. "My mistake. You reminded me of someone."

  "People tell me I have one of those faces," she replied smoothly, yet beneath her smile lurked a question, as if trying to communicate something without words.

  "Dude, this place is so sweet!" Jay spun in a half-circle, taking in the surroundings. "Like a perfectly preserved vintage theater! Nobody builds with this kind of detail anymore—I mean, back in Florida."

  Jim's eyebrows drew together slightly. "You're from America, I take it?"

  "Florida," Jay nodded, grinning too widely. "Land of sunshine and questionable life choices." He pointed to the radio in Jim's hand. "That thing is practically a brick compared to—I mean, it must weigh a ton, right? Like something from a museum."

  "It's perfectly standard equipment," Jim replied, turning the unit over in his hand.

  "Yeah, but compared to smart phones—"

  Bob's hand closed firmly on Jay's shoulder, silencing him mid-sentence. The bearded man gave his companion a warning look that drained the color from Jay's face.

  "He means car phones," Bob said, his deep voice quiet but carrying. "Jay works in telecommunications."

  "Right, totally," Jay nodded frantically. "Car phones. Cutting edge stuff. That's what I meant."

  "Perhaps we could begin with a tour of the backstage area?" Claudia smoothly redirected. "Your VIPs are particularly interested in the technical aspects of the production."

  "Of course," Jim replied, tucking away the strange exchange for later consideration. He gestured toward the corridor. "If you'll follow me."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  As they walked, Jim pointed out features of the theatre while his mind circled questions about Claudia and her odd companions. Bob maintained his silence, though his eyes missed nothing. Jay, meanwhile, couldn't seem to stop talking.

  "The acoustic treatment in here is killer," Jay remarked as they entered the main auditorium. "The frequency response is so clean compared to digital—I mean, compared to other places."

  Jim paused mid-step. "Digital?"

  "He means electronic equipment," Bob interjected, his voice revealing nothing. "Jay gets his terminology confused."

  "Right, right," Jay nodded too vigorously. "All those electronic synthesizers and stuff you guys use. Totally different from acoustic instruments."

  They continued past the sound desk where technicians made final adjustments. One engineer triggered a playback, only for the system to emit a piercing screech before cutting out entirely.

  "Whoa, major buffer—" Jay began, then stopped when Bob's elbow connected with his ribs. "I mean, that's some bad feedback. System crash, am I right?"

  The term "buffer" hung oddly in the air. The chief sound engineer cursed and began checking connections.

  "Is there Wi-Fi backstage?" Jay asked, oblivious to Jim's frown. "I need to check my... uh, pager. Important business."

  "Your what?" Jim asked.

  "He means the telephone," Claudia intervened, her tone unnaturally bright. "There's one in the lobby, Jay."

  "Cool, cool. No wireless. Got it. Keeping it old school."

  Bob remained silent, though Jim caught a muscle working in his jaw as he watched Jay with increasing intensity.

  They approached the stage where the band's equipment stood ready. John's bass rig dominated stage left, considerably more substantial than what he'd used at the Marquee. Jay approached it, practically vibrating with excitement.

  "Dude, check out this vintage analog gear! That bass amp is so classic—they don't make them that thick and warm anymore in—"

  Bob moved with startling speed, his hand clamping over Jay's mouth. He leaned in, whispering something that made Jay's eyes widen in genuine alarm.

  "He meant they don't make them like this in Tucson," Bob said, his calm tone belied by the tightness around his eyes. "Jay's hometown."

  Jim's fingers unconsciously tightened around the radio again. "Right. Well, perhaps we should—"

  The stage door swung open with a metallic groan. A slim man with distinctive eyes and sharp features stepped through, wrapped in an expensive coat despite the mild day. An assistant trailing behind carried a leather bag, hovering attentively as the man surveyed the stage.

  "David!" Freddie's voice called from the wings before he appeared, resplendent in a silk kimono over fitted trousers. "You made it. Fashionably almost late, as expected."

  "Nearly didn't," replied the newcomer—David—with a slight smile. "Traffic was murder. Worth it though. Been ages since we've done this one live."

  Jim found himself moving forward, words forming without conscious thought. "David, good to see you. We've got about ten minutes before the technical run-through for 'Under Pressure.'"

  Though he had no recollection of arranging this guest appearance, knowledge unfurled in his mind—David would join them for a special performance of "Under Pressure," the collaborative single they'd recorded at Mountain Studios in Montreux last year.

  "Jim," David acknowledged with a nod. "Everything set for the lighting change during the bridge? I want that stark white side-light we discussed."

  "All arranged," Jim confirmed, surprised by the certainty in his voice. "We'll run the cues during sound check."

  As David and Freddie moved toward the stage deep in conversation, Claudia appeared at Jim's elbow. The faint scent of her perfume—something with hints of vanilla and amber—triggered another flash of recognition.

  "Could I have a word?" she asked quietly. "About the VIP access during the performance."

  "Of course."

  She guided him toward a quiet corner near the backstage exit, positioned where they could still keep an eye on Jay and Bob, who were examining Brian's guitar setup under a technician's watchful gaze.

  "You do remember me," she said, her voice low. "From the Marquee."

  Relief loosened the tightness in Jim's chest. "Yes. But that's impossible. The Marquee wasn't on this tour."

  "I know." Her eyes reflected confusion and something deeper—a wariness bordering on fear. "Yet I remember our conversation clearly. You asked me about the setlist changes."

  "You told me to pay attention to my dreams," Jim added, the memory sharp-edged and precise.

  Her fingers moved to the crown pendant, turning it back and forth on its chain. "Do you ever feel like you've lived the same moment before? Not just déjà vu, but actually experienced events in a completely different sequence?"

  Jim's mouth went dry. "That's exactly what's happening. Yesterday—or what I remember as yesterday—was the Marquee. Small venue, inadequate sound system—"

  "Sticky floors," she finished. "And now we're here at the Hammersmith. Everything scaled up."

  "But how is this possible? How can we both remember something that apparently never happened?"

  Before she could answer, the opening bass line of "Under Pressure" thundered through the theater. John's fingers danced across the fretboard, establishing that hypnotic riff. Each note resonated with remarkable clarity in the theater's acoustics.

  Claudia's gaze shifted toward the stage. "I should get back to my group. Jay needs..." She hesitated. "Supervision."

  "Wait," Jim said, his hand lifting but stopping short of touching her arm. "We need to discuss this. It can't be coincidence."

  "No, it can't," she agreed, her voice barely audible over the music. "Find me after 'Under Pressure.' There's more happening here than either of us understands."

  She turned and walked back toward Jay and Bob, resuming her professional demeanor. Jim watched her retreat, the weight of their shared impossible memories settling like a stone in his stomach.

  On stage, the band had assembled around David and Freddie at center stage. Roger counted them in, and John's bass line established itself again, the full band joining. The simple pattern acquired unexpected depth in the Hammersmith's acoustics, a richness the Marquee could never have produced.

  As the song built toward its first vocal section, the lighting system flickered—not a smooth transition but an erratic pattern that sent shadows dancing across the stage. The unintended effect created a dramatic atmosphere that somehow enhanced the building tension in the music.

  "What's happening with the lights?" Jim called toward the booth.

  "Power glitches," came the response through his radio. "Dimmer board shows normal readings but output is unstable."

  On stage, neither the band nor David seemed troubled by the lighting issue. They continued building the song, tension mounting as David's voice joined Freddie's in their distinctive call-and-response pattern.

  Jim gripped the backstage rail, the cool metal grounding him as the song progressed. The technical malfunction should have concerned him more, but he couldn't shake the certainty that he'd witnessed this exact same lighting glitch before—not at the Marquee, but here, in this precise moment of this exact song.

  As David and Freddie reached the crescendo—"Why can't we give love one more chance?"—the lights suddenly stabilized, flooding the stage with precisely focused illumination that highlighted both vocalists in stark white light, exactly as David had requested. The effect was so perfectly timed to the musical climax that it appeared intentional rather than the resolution of a technical problem.

  The bass frequencies resonated physically in Jim's chest while the harmonized vocals seemed to vibrate along his spine. His radio emitted a burst of static that synchronized perfectly with a cymbal crash, as if the devices themselves were responding to the music.

  As the song reached its powerful conclusion, every element—the lighting malfunction, the room's acoustics, the performers' positioning—seemed to have unfolded exactly as it was meant to, following a script he'd somehow already read. This sensation only deepened his unease about his contradictory memories and Claudia's confirmation that she shared them.

  The final notes faded into a moment of perfect silence before the assembled technicians erupted in spontaneous applause. Freddie and David exchanged a look of mutual satisfaction, artists who knew they'd captured something special.

  "Lighting issue resolved," came the voice through Jim's radio, sounding perplexed. "Can't identify the cause. Turned them off and on again. All systems now functioning normally."

  "Copy that," Jim responded automatically, his gaze finding Claudia across the stage. She stood watching, absently turning the crown pendant between her fingers. When their eyes met, she gave him a slight nod that contained volumes—acknowledgment, confusion, and a promise to continue their conversation.

  Whatever was happening—these impossible shared memories, his knowledge of events he couldn't possibly know, Jay's strange comments, the technical glitches that resolved themselves too perfectly—Jim felt certain that Claudia held at least some of the answers. As the band dispersed and David's assistant fussed around him with a garment bag, Jim checked his watch, calculating how soon he could reasonably pull her aside for a proper conversation.

  For now, though, he had a theater full of technicians awaiting direction and a performance to prepare—a performance that felt simultaneously brand new and hauntingly familiar, like a half-remembered dream that continued to bleed into his waking hours.