Echoes of Tomorrow:2015

In the weeks that followed the "Echoes of a Generation Tour," Alex found himself in a strange new reality. He was, at seventeen, a titan of the music industry. His presence was requested at charity galas, film premieres, and high-powered industry mixers where he, often the youngest person in the room by two decades, was treated with a deferential respect that still felt alien. It was at one such event—a glittering pre-Oscars fundraiser held at a sprawling Beverly Hills estate—that a new, unexpected thread was woven into the Echo Chamber tapestry.

He was making polite, practiced conversation near the massive, floodlit swimming pool, nursing a glass of sparkling water, when one of Hollywood's most powerful and recognizable directors approached him. It was J.J. Abrams. Alex knew him instantly, not just from his legendary films, but as a key figure in the Hollywood landscape of both his timelines.

"Alex Vance," Abrams said, his voice warm and familiar, extending a hand. "J.J. Abrams. I'm a massive admirer of your work. The score for La La Land was breathtaking. It had the soul of the old world and the heartbreak of the new. My wife and I have had it on repeat."

"Thank you, Mr. Abrams," Alex replied, shaking his hand, a little star-struck despite himself. "That means a great deal coming from you. I'm a huge fan of your films."

They chatted for a few minutes about the art of storytelling, the intersection of film and music. Then, Abrams' professional demeanor shifted slightly, becoming softer, more fatherly. He glanced around the bustling party, then leaned in a little closer.

"Listen, I know you must get this constantly, and please feel free to tell me to get lost," he began, a hint of awkwardness in his tone. "But my daughter, Gracie… she writes songs. She's eighteen, incredibly shy about it. She never plays for anyone, but I hear her through her bedroom door sometimes. Just her and a piano. And the things I hear…" He shook his head, a look of pure paternal pride on his face. "She's got something. A real point of view. I was just wondering… and again, no pressure at all, but if you ever had a spare moment, would you be willing to just… listen to one? Just as a favor, to an old man trying to encourage his kid to believe in her own magic."

Alex was used to these kinds of requests. They came from distant cousins, from his father's business associates, from strangers on the street. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the demos were uninspired. But something in Abrams' genuine, almost pleading request resonated with him. It wasn't a business pitch; it was a father's hope.

"Of course, Mr. Abrams," Alex said, his response smooth and gracious. "I'd be happy to. Have your team send a file to my office at Echo Chamber. I can't make any promises, but I am always happy to listen to new talent." He gave him a polite smile, honestly expecting it to be a five-minute listen followed by a carefully worded, encouraging rejection letter.

A few days later, Alex was at home, finally enjoying a quiet afternoon. An email pinged in his inbox. The subject line read: "From the office of J.J. Abrams - Song for your consideration." Attached was a single MP3 file, simply titled "Gracie's Demo.mp3". With a small sigh, figuring he should get it over with, Alex clicked play.

A simple, melancholic piano melody began, delicate and hesitant. And then came a voice. It was a whisper, a fragile, breathy thing that seemed to curl around the notes. But it wasn't the voice that made Alex sit bolt upright in his chair. It was the words.

"You were my everything, and I was just a season… I was the 21st, and you were the 20th of July…"

The lyrics were devastating. They were hyper-specific, intelligent, and imbued with a quiet, observant pain that felt startlingly real. This wasn't a teenager writing about a generic breakup; this was a poet dissecting a memory with surgical precision, line by devastating line. The song unfolded, a diary entry set to music, telling the story of feeling like a placeholder in someone else's life.

Alex was completely stunned. This was not the work of an amateur. This was the work of a genius. The raw talent was as undeniable as Billie's unique sonic identity or Harry's rock-star charisma.

A jolt of recognition, a familiar whisper from his past life, went through him. He immediately queried the Codex, his mind racing. Search: Gracie Abrams. Match to Timeline A.

The result confirmed his suspicion. Gracie Abrams, daughter of J.J. Abrams. In his 2025 timeline, she hadn't been a multi-platinum superstar, but she had been a critically adored cult icon, hailed by reviewers as the heir to Taylor Swift's and Joni Mitchell's confessional songwriting thrones. Her fans were a devoted, passionate army who treated her lyrics like sacred texts.

He had just accidentally stumbled upon one of the most brilliant lyrical talents of the next decade.

Without a second's hesitation, he grabbed his phone and called the number for J.J. Abrams that his father's assistant had provided.

"J.J., it's Alex Vance," he said, his voice now buzzing with an energy that was a world away from his polite demeanor at the party. "I've listened to Gracie's demo. And I need you to know I was wrong. I don't want to listen to her music as a favor. I want to listen as the head of a record label who has just discovered a generational songwriter. The way she writes… it's extraordinary. I would be honored to sign her to Echo Chamber Records, whenever she feels she's ready."

The meeting was arranged for the following week at the Vance home, a deliberately informal setting. Gracie arrived with her father. She was even quieter in person, a thoughtful and observant young woman who seemed perpetually curled into herself, intimidated by Alex's superstar status.

Alex didn't try to sell her on a dream of fame. He didn't talk about marketing, or tours, or chart positions. He treated her like a fellow writer, an equal.

"Gracie," he began, holding an iPad with her lyrics on it. "This line here… 'I was the spare-part-love, you were the last call that I made.' That's just… perfect. The imagery is so precise. How do you do that? How do you get to the core of a feeling like that?"

Gracie, who had been nervously staring at her hands, finally looked up, surprised. He wasn't complimenting her voice or the melody. He was complimenting her words. For the first time, she began to talk, her shyness melting away as she spoke about her process, about how she saw memories in tiny, specific details. He didn't just hear her song; he understood it. He made her feel seen as an artist.

By the end of the conversation, she had quietly agreed to sign with Echo Chamber. But she had one condition. "I'm supposed to start at Barnard College in the fall," she said, her voice soft but firm. "My education… it's really important to me."

"It should be," Alex said immediately. "And we would never get in the way of that."

They formulated a plan unlike any other on the Echo Chamber roster. A patient plan. Gracie would sign a development deal. She would go to college. She would live her life, experience the world, and most importantly, keep writing. She would send Alex her demos, and they would talk about them, slowly building a body of work. There would be no pressure, no deadlines. They would aim for a soft launch into the industry around 2020, when she was ready. It was the quietest, most long-term deal Alex had ever made, an investment not in a product, but in the slow, careful cultivation of a poet.