Remastered Hearts

Maya arrived at Soundcraft Studios exactly twenty-seven minutes early, giving herself time to collect her thoughts in the gleaming lobby. Elena Reyes would be here soon for their first recording session, and everything had to be perfect. The memoir was already generating buzz—a James Beard Award-winning chef exploring family, immigration, and the evolution of Korean-American cuisine through three generations of recipes.

Her phone buzzed: a text from Elena. Running 5 late. Traffic on the bridge is brutal.

Which meant Maya had thirty-two minutes to figure out how to breathe normally around Marcus Taylor.

She hadn't expected him to win the bid. Had been counting on one of the big studios to offer something more corporate, more predictable. But Marcus's proposal had been brilliant—a vision for an intimate audio experience that would make listeners feel like they were standing in Elena's grandmother's kitchen, learning family secrets along with family recipes.

The elevator dinged, and Marcus emerged carrying two coffee cups. He stopped short when he saw her.

"You're early." He recovered quickly, extending one of the cups. "Two sugars, no cream."

Maya accepted the coffee, their fingers brushing briefly. "You didn't have to—"

"Professional courtesy." He shifted, looking more like the Marcus she remembered in worn jeans and a faded band t-shirt. The corporate polish from their first meeting was gone. "Elena's running late?"

"Five minutes." Maya sipped the coffee—perfect, damn him—and pulled out her tablet. "We should discuss the structure for today's session. I was thinking—"

"Already set up a rough recording schedule. Dom's finishing the mic checks now." Marcus gestured toward the stairs. "Want to see?"

The studio looked different today. More lived-in, with scattered notes and equipment cases suggesting actual work rather than the pristine showcase from her first visit. A half-eaten bagel sat near the mixing console, and someone had drawn a cartoon on the whiteboard—a stick figure fighting what appeared to be a possessed microphone.

"Dom's artistic contribution," Marcus explained, following her gaze. "He claims the mic in Booth B has it out for him."

Maya found herself smiling despite her best intentions. "Still anthropomorphizing the equipment?"

"Some things never change." Marcus moved to the console, pulling up a session file. "I thought we'd start with Elena's earliest memory—the first time her grandmother let her help in the kitchen. Build the soundscape from there."

He hit play, and the studio filled with subtle audio: the soft sizzle of oil in a pan, wooden spoons against metal bowls, the distant murmur of family voices. It was exactly what Maya had imagined while reading the manuscript, but better.

"Marcus, this is—"

The door burst open. "Sorry I'm late!" Elena Reyes swept in, a whirlwind of energy in a chef's jacket and bright red lipstick. "Bridge traffic was insane, and then my son called about college applications, and—" She stopped, looking between Maya and Marcus. "Oh. Am I interrupting something?"

"Just reviewing the audio setup," Maya said smoothly. "Elena, this is Marcus Taylor, our producer. Marcus, Elena Reyes."

"The kitchen soundtrack is perfect," Elena declared after listening to the sample. "It sounds exactly like Sunday mornings at my grandmother's. How did you know?"

Marcus shot Maya a quick glance. "Good research. And some experience with family kitchens."

Maya remembered his mother's cramped kitchen in Queens, where they'd spent countless Sundays testing recipes from the cookbooks his publishing house was considering. Marcus cooking while she read manuscripts aloud, the air rich with garlic and possibility...

"Maya?" Elena's voice snapped her back to the present. "Should we get started?"

The next few hours passed in a blur of technical adjustments and storytelling. Elena was a natural, her voice warm and engaging as she described learning to make kimchi with her grandmother. Marcus worked magic at the console, capturing not just the words but the emotion behind them.

"Let's take fifteen," he suggested after a particularly intense section about Elena's grandmother's final years. "Rest your voice."

Elena headed to the restroom, leaving Maya alone with Marcus in the control room. The silence felt heavy with unspoken words.

"She's good," Marcus said finally. "Raw and honest. The kind of voice I always looked for in manuscripts."

"I thought of you," Maya admitted. "When I first read her sample chapters. She has that same quality you always said was rare—the ability to make readers feel like they're having an intimate conversation with a friend."

Marcus's hands stilled on the console. "Maya—"

The door opened, and Dom appeared with take-out bags. "Lunch break! I got those dumplings from the place around the corner. You know, the ones you used to—" He stopped, looking between them. "I mean, uh, random dumplings. From a random place. That no one has any history with."

Maya's chest tightened at the familiar logo on the bags. Golden Palace. Their old Friday lunch tradition.

"Perfect timing," Elena breezed back in. "I'm starving. Maya, come sit with me in the lounge? I had some thoughts about the chapter ordering."

Maya grabbed her tablet, grateful for the escape. But as she followed Elena out, she heard Marcus murmur to Dom: "Really? Golden Palace?"

"What?" Dom's mock-innocent tone carried clearly. "They make the best dumplings in Williamsburg. Not my fault you have emotional baggage with Chinese food."

In the lounge, Elena waited until they were settled with their food before saying, "So. You and the producer."

Maya kept her face neutral. "Marcus and I have worked together before."

"Honey." Elena's look was knowing. "I've been married twenty years. I know what unfinished business looks like."

"It's ancient history," Maya insisted. "We're keeping things strictly professional."

"Mm-hmm." Elena dabbed her lips with a napkin. "That's why you both look at each other like that when you think the other isn't watching. Very professional."

Maya opened her mouth to protest, but Elena held up a hand. "My memoir is about food and family and second chances. About how sometimes the best recipes need time to develop their full flavor." She smiled. "Just something to think about."

Through the glass wall, Maya could see Marcus in the control room, head bent over the console as he worked. The afternoon light caught his profile, and suddenly she was five years in the past, watching him lean over a different desk in a much smaller office...

"Just listen to this," Marcus had said, reading aloud from a manuscript. His voice filled his cramped office at Groundbreaking Press, warm and passionate as always when he found something special. "The way she describes her grandmother's hands kneading dough—it's like poetry."

Maya had perched on the edge of his desk, surrounded by towering stacks of submissions. It was their Friday ritual: takeout from Golden Palace, promising manuscripts, and dreams bigger than their tiny corner of the publishing world.

"Read it again," she'd said, closing her eyes to better absorb the words. The office had smelled of soy sauce and possibility, and Marcus's voice had wrapped around her like a familiar blanket.

"See?" He'd looked up at her, eyes bright with that infectious enthusiasm that made her fall in love with him all over again. "This is why I started Groundbreaking. To find voices like this—raw and real and unafraid."

She'd leaned down to kiss him then, tasting soy sauce and dreams on his lips. "We're going to change publishing," she'd promised. "One voice at a time."

"We're going to change everything," he'd agreed, pulling her closer, the manuscript forgotten between them.

Now, watching him through the studio glass, Maya felt the weight of all their broken promises. He looked up, caught her watching, and they both quickly looked away.

Then he glanced up, caught her watching, and they both quickly looked away.

Static, Maya thought. That's all this was. Background noise that would fade once the project was done.

She just had to survive six more weeks of pretending she believed that.