Echoes of Heart

The sky glows with the soft hues of dawn, casting golden light over an empty beach. Lyla Cohen, a young woman in her early 20s, sits cross-legged on a faded quilted blanket, lost in her sketchbook. Her tan skin glows warm in the sunlight, and her wavy-straight black-brown hair, tousled by the sea breeze, falls gently across her face.

Her fingers move instinctively, delicately bringing to life the image of a small boy playing with his ball by the ocean. The calm waves murmur nearby, while a soft acoustic melody hums from a small Bluetooth speaker tucked in her tote. As she rises to wander along the shore, the sea waves teasingly touch her feet and retreat like shy children.

“We are nothing but subject to the whims of time,” she murmurs, her eyes drifting to a family in the distance building sandcastles together.

Returning to her tote, she takes a peek at her phone. “Crap!”

The sketchbook snaps shut. Pencils scatter into her oversized canvas tote, the water bottle barely capped. She throws the bag over her shoulder and takes off running down the sand, she hops on her bike and takes off, the wind in her face and the sun at her back.

The campus was buzzing -- bikes zip past, students clutch coffee and half-zipped bags and rushed to their classes. Lyla rounds the fountain and skids into the parking lot, weaving through the blur of movement with chaotic grace. She slides her bike into the rack, fumbles with the lock, and takes off running, her feet slapping against the pavement.

She was dressed in a cream linen buttoned-up collar dress, the waist belt cinched to highlight her soft hourglass silhouette. She ran through the hallway slapping against the marble floor those tan leather huarache sandals and dodging people like a pinball.

CRASH.

The sound of shattering glass slices through the chatter. Time stutters. On the ground, in pieces, lies a vintage film camera.

The guy she hit was none other than Rowan Meyers, the all-time winner of the interstate photography competition. He is tall, about 6′3", with fair skin, a golden undertone, and broad shoulders filling out a crisp white polo. His thick, dark brown hair is effortlessly styled. Everything about him is elegant, almost intimidatingly collected. But right now, he is perturbed — not just in expression, but in his very presence.

He drops to one knee, eyes fixed on the wreckage. As he bends, he comes eye-level with her. Lyla swallows. She barely reaches his chest, and right now, she feels painfully aware of it.

“Oh my god. I’m -- I’m so sorry. I didn’t see—”

“Clearly,” Rowan says, his voice cool and clipped. “I can see that.”

Lyla drops to her knees too, hands trembling as she tries to collect the shattered pieces. “I’ll fix this. I swear. Meet me at Sofie’s Den. 1 PM. I promise I will fix it somehow.”

She gently shoves the broken camera into her already-stuffed tote and takes off without waiting, glancing back just once. He stands there. Still. Watching. Confused. Annoyed. A little curious.

Lyla leans over in class and whispers to her friend, “Ever feel like the universe is trying to humble you in thirty seconds or less?”

“Not again, Lyla. Just talk straight. What happened?” Misha whispers back.

“I crashed into a guy. I broke his camera. It looked pretty pricey… and definitely vintage,” Lyla says, pulling the broken pieces from her bag.

Misha’s face went pale. Growing up with wildlife photographer parents, she knew cameras like the back of her hand. “I think it’s time to lose all your funds—and if that’s not enough, sell both your kidneys,” she says flatly.

“Why?”

“That’s a Polaroid SX-70 Sonar One Step – Gold Edition. It costs more than five grand.”

Lyla’s stomach twists. Her blood goes cold. She stares at the clock, wishing it would stop. Anything to delay 1 PM.

Outside the lecture hall window, Rowan stands with his arms crossed, scanning the classroom. When he spots Lyla, he isn’t glaring, just observing. He notices the pale expression on her face. When the professor suddenly calls her out, she jumps in her seat. The reaction reminded him of the little hamster he’d had as a kid —nervous, always startled. He lets out a small dry chuckle.

He sits on a nearby bench and pulls out a book—Fine Art Photography by David Meyers. He stares at the author photo somberly, his fingers tracing the image. “I miss you, Dad,” he whispers.

The hum of lunch hour fills Sofie’s Den Cafe. Lyla walks in, clutching her bag. She has a soft, peaceful look—but her eyes give away her nerves. She spots him at a corner table.

She approaches slowly. “Hi. I brought your—I mean, what’s left of your camera.”

Rowan slides off his headphones. “Polaroid SX-70 Sonar One Step—Gold Edition,” he murmurs. “I’ve had it for six years. It was handed down by my father.”

“I can pay for the repairs. I didn’t mean—”

“You can’t,” he interrupts. “It’s a limited edition. Auctioned piece.”

“Are you always this clumsy?” Rowan asks, trying to read her.

Lyla lets out a nervous laugh. “Only when I’m not running late and crashing into strangers with expensive taste.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m Rowan Meyers. Photography major. Final year.”

“Lyla Cohen. Fine arts major, sophomore year.”

Her stomach growls—loudly. Rowan smirks and orders a coffee and a croissant. When the order arrives, Lyla devours it, stress-eating. Rowan watches her, amused. “You know, you remind me of a hamster I had as a kid. You look like it when you eat that croissant.”

“I look cute?” she asks, trying to lighten the mood.

“No. It looked stupid,” he says, dryly.

Then, the mood shifts. The air in the cafe turns cold.

“So, how are you going to compensate me for my broken camera, Miss Cohen?” Rowan asks.

The “Miss Cohen” pierced her sharply. She felt a pit in her stomach. She stopped eating; the coffee sat untouched. It was as if she had lost all her hunger in a single second. She couldn’t look into Rowan’s eyes.

“I would like to compensate you. Please, tell me how I can do that,” she said, mustering all her courage to look at him. His eyes were cold and stern.

“Do you know how much this costs? Beyond that... this was the camera gifted to my late father by my late mother. I highly doubt you can compensate for that in this lifetime.”

He sounded angry, but he kept a surprising, quiet hold on his tone,which made it even scarier.

“I am sorry,” Lyla says, looking down at her feet. Her eyes brimmed with tears, her voice choking. Rowan just looked at her. He knew she didn’t do it intentionally, but he still couldn’t find it in himself to forgive her yet.

He pinched his temple, exasperated. “Miss Cohen...I don’t think I will be able to forgive you.”

Rowan left, paying the bill. All the tears Lyla had blocked so far started streaming down her face.

After a long day, Lyla returns to the seacoast. The sun is setting, her linen dress moving gently with the breeze. She sits on the sand, flipping through her sketchbook. One page catches her attention—a sketch of the broken camera, the cracks drawn with dramatic, grieving lines. In the margin, she’d scribbled: “I wish I’m forgiven.”

She pulls a hoodie from her tote bag, slips it on over her dress, and starts walking her bike home.

Across campus, Rowan sits at his desk in his studio. The broken camera lay in front of him beside a photo of his father at the beach. He gently begins piecing the camera back together with glue, slow and careful.

He rested back on his chair. He suddenly thought of Lyla—how she had looked so guilty, how she tried so hard to stop her tears. He looked at the wreckage of the camera and clasped his hands over his face, sighing.

“Oh, Dad. What should I do?”

The void in the room felt physical, a cold draft that no heater could touch. He looked at the author photo on the book jacket placed on that very table next to his broken souvenir . His father looked immortal there, captured in high-contrast monochrome.

“Is this the sign, Dad?” Rowan whispered, his voice sounding thin against the soundproofed walls. “Is it time to stop holding onto the ghost of you?”

He picked up a small tube of precision adhesive, but his hand hovered, trembling just a fraction of a millimeter.

“What am I going to do?”

Rowan stood up, walked to the window, and looked out toward the distant, dark line of the coast where Lyla was likely sitting under the stars. The void was still there, vast and aching, but for the first time in three years, a new emotion was flickering at the edges of it.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

It was a terrifying, quiet curiosity.

He reached out and turned off the studio lamp, leaving the broken gold camera in the dark.

“I’m tired of being a museum, Dad,” he breathed into the shadows.

He didn’t know how Lyla would compensate him, but he knew one thing: he wasn’t going to let her easily go. He didn't know what he was feeling. But he definitely knew he wont let her go that easily for sure.