The Next Track Was Unwritten

The company stayed sixty percent mine and forty percent Zara's. We expanded original production, useful licenses and services for clients who paid, with contributors receiving the rights and compensation actually agreed. Some pieces never sold enough to justify a sequel. Some had a long life we had not predicted. Zara became the creative leader everyone already knew she was, and I stopped treating a second opinion as a threat to my title. We hired capable people and gave them decisions to make. The catalog became larger than the founder's memory, which was the best sign that I had begun to build a future rather than repeat one.

By 2026 annual company revenue reached about forty-five million Trinidad and Tobago dollars, with roughly nine million profit after operating costs, contributor payments and company taxes in that year. Over the years twenty million had been distributed from available profits after the company's reserves. My sixty percent meant twelve million received. Personal tax provisions, a home and other family and living expenses accounted for five million, leaving about seven million Trinidad and Tobago dollars in separate cash and investments. Zara's eight million in cumulative distributions were hers. The company had not been sold, and a large imaginary acquisition was not required to make our actual lives comfortable.

I bought my mother a good piano after asking whether she wanted one, then hired somebody who knew how to move it properly. She played an old exercise, made a mistake and laughed instead of apologizing for being out of practice. I remembered how often I had used my talent as an excuse to delay enjoying it. She told me to stop standing like an audience waiting for an examination result and sit beside her. We played badly together for a few minutes. It was one of the best uses I had found for money: making a thing possible without demanding that it become impressive afterward.

Zara came to a studio celebration with her partner, carrying a new idea she was not ready to show me. I liked that she could keep a thought to herself until it was hers enough to share. Leah was making a film, Nia had learned a new dance and Asha wanted no financial speech before the food. Tara and Ria argued cheerfully about an exhibition. Elle took a photograph and put the camera away. Sade, Bea, Jo, Tess and Hope had stories whose main characters were not me. I had once feared losing a possibility. Now I could enjoy a room full of actual lives.

Mia sang one original song because she wanted to, not because dating a studio owner made every party a free booking. I sat and listened without offering a production note. Afterward she came over in a blue dress, put a hand on my shoulder and asked whether the restraint had been painful. I said I had nearly achieved peace. She kissed me, laughed and said she would continue the experiment at home. The room remained warm after she sat beside me. I had made a fortune from sound, but the pleasure I enjoyed most in that moment had required me to say very little.

We chose a small wedding after several years of ordinary shared life. It happened because we wanted it, not because a buyer needed the story to end at a recognizable milestone. Mia kept her performing name and independent work. Our house had a room where she could close the door to write without me improving the arrangement. Mine had the same courtesy. Sometimes we met in the kitchen after working separately, both pleased to hear a familiar voice with no microphone between it and the room. The wealth had given us space. We still had to decide kindly how to use it.

Rex sent an inquiry about a larger license through the proper company address. I saw the message and let our team handle it. A younger version of me might have called everyone over to inspect the reversal. Instead I went to buy food for a dinner I had promised to cook. The old studio's cheap cable had earned its place in my memory, but I did not need to keep every afternoon connected to it. Success was beginning to mean that a man who once controlled my week could now be an ordinary customer in somebody else's inbox.

InNovember 2026 the next ten years became a track I had not heard. I opened the first original project and found a rough little sound Zara had once told me to simplify. I kept the old version as well as the better one. The first attempt mattered because we had made it, not because a future report would call it important. I had money I could actually spend, work I still wanted to make and people free to tell me that a new idea was bad. The uncertainty ahead felt less like a fault than a quiet room waiting for the first useful note.

Mia found me listening and asked whether the younger man was still waiting for permission to begin. I told her he had finally learned to press record. She leaned against my shoulder, closed her eyes for a moment and said the room sounded better when I was not afraid of it. I kissed her forehead and let the piece end. Then we turned the equipment off and went to dinner. Outside, somebody's music was playing loudly enough to be heard down the street. For once I did not inspect the sound. I took my wife's hand and enjoyed being part of the audience.