Buzz—
My phone vibrated against the table. A number I knew all too well lit up on the screen.
"Hoo..."
I took a deep breath and picked it up.
"Yes, this is Julien Moreau."
—Hello, Mr. Moreau. This is Claude Bernard, head of Production Team 3 at Maison SY.
Just as I expected. Claude Bernard.
"Yes, hello."
—First of all, thank you for participating in the Maison SY Rookie Composer Contest. I'm pleased to inform you that your submission received an excellent score. And...
In my past life, this moment had made me clench my fists and cheer silently.
It was the first time my original work—something I had poured my soul into—had been acknowledged by a major label. Back then, Maison SY was one of the biggest entertainment agencies in Paris.
I felt like I was on top of the world.
—We could have notified you by email, but I wanted to personally talk about signing an exclusive composer contract.
Claude went on, explaining the contract duration, the royalties, the activity plans, and the benefits.
The first time, I had been too giddy to absorb any of it.
But this time, I saw the traps behind the sweet words.
That "private studio" they offered? It was barely a 5-square-meter corner of the building near Montmartre.
The salary? Laughable when compared to the amount of work. The benefits? Empty words.
Rookie composers at SY were treated like hens in a coop. Lay golden eggs or be thrown out.
SY was nothing but a glittering industrial farm for music.
When I didn't react, Claude hesitated. My silence must have thrown him off.
Then he tried a new pitch—one I hadn't heard in my past life.
—Ah! I almost forgot to mention. If one of your songs is selected for one of our artists, you'll receive a 10,000-euro bonus per track.
"What?"
That was new.
So why hadn't I received that in my previous life?
Where had that money gone?
Of course, asking those questions now was pointless.
Unless you were part of Claude Bernard's inner circle, you had no chance. Arrangements were rare. Song credits, even rarer.
In hindsight, the one time I did get a title track was probably his last bait.
This was still the same trap.
"It certainly sounds like a great opportunity."
—Right? We take pride in our reputation. So, how do you feel?
Claude was eager. Too eager.
But I stayed calm.
"It would be an honor to join such a renowned agency, but I'd like to read the full contract first. Could you send it via email? I'll review and get back to you."
—Haha, of course. Very prudent of you. I'll send it immediately.
"Thank you."
I ended the call.
This was the moment I discovered the hidden incentive I had missed in my former life.
Perhaps this contract even had better terms than the one I'd signed back then.
But I had no intention of joining Maison SY again.
That life had taught me one brutal truth:
A composer isn't just a music machine.
Yes, I could create sleek, catchy songs. But did that make them good?
A good song is decided by the listener. And SY had long stopped listening.
Creativity dies in isolation. Inspiration requires connection—to people, to emotions, to the world.
That's why this time, I would choose TW.
TW, a smaller but sincere company in the heart of Paris, respected artists. Supported them.
They were slow to rise, but they grew. In my past life, they had started to rival SY by 2022.
Back then, I hadn't seen it.
But now, I knew better.
Do I want fame? Wealth?
Of course. But after facing death, one desire stood above all:
I want to create music.
And I want it to reach the world.
That is the real dream I must fulfill.
The past is gone.
I left the café near Canal Saint-Martin and returned to my studio in the 11th arrondissement.
I sat in front of my keyboard.
This was my new beginning.
And I had a plan.
In Parisian agencies, the A&R department was the gateway. They collected songs, curated talent, and matched composers to artists.
I was going to send one of my tracks to TW's A&R inbox.
"Let's see... what did TW release in late 2010?"
Then I remembered.
A winter single. Not a major album, just one song: "Snowman" by Pierre Lemoine.
It was released mid-December. Quietly. Almost forgotten.
The chorus was unremarkable. Maybe that's why they didn't push it harder.
A missed opportunity.
If I'd written that song, I wouldn't have left it half-baked.
So I decided to reimagine it.
Hands on keys. Memories guiding me.
The original melody? A blur.
But that was fine.
Instead of a bright major key, I chose a haunting minor.
A ballad tempo: 65 BPM.
Perfect for Pierre's voice.
Bass. Chords. Progression. It all came naturally.
Then the rhythm. Kick, snare, hi-hat. Organic. Lifelike.
Humanized velocity. Gentle fills.
I added a walking bass. Loose quantization. Just the right swing.
It was time for melody.
I set up my condenser mic. Phantom power on.
I wasn't a singer. But I could hum. I could shape emotion into sound.
I recorded in one take.
Click. Stop. Done.
Since coming back, everything was faster. Clearer.
Orchestration? Instant.
Three hours in.
One polished, complete track.
"It's good. Damn good."
I emailed it to TW's A&R.
Subject: Snowman
It shared the name. But nothing else.
No long intro. No dragging verses.
Just emotion. Clarity. Winter in every note.
If TW hears this...
It'll spark something.
Good music doesn't age.
And mine—
Mine had traveled through time.