The sun had just begun to rise over the Pacific, casting soft pinks and golds across the sky as Lila zipped up her windbreaker. It was spring in California — that perfect sliver of the year when the air is crisp in the morning, but the day promises warmth and sunshine.

She and her friends had driven down the Pacific Coast Highway the night before, chasing the idea of a spontaneous escape. By sunrise, they were stepping barefoot onto the cool, golden sand of El Matador Beach in Malibu, coffee in hand and laughter echoing off the sea-carved cliffs.

Gulls cried overhead as the tide whispered in and out, leaving little treasures behind: smooth pebbles, spiral shells, and the occasional strand of seaweed like ribbon. The morning was theirs. They laid out towels in a semicircle, shaking off the last chill of dawn. Some dozed in the sun, while others splashed ankle-deep in the waves, too cold for a real swim — but too tempting not to test.

By late morning, the beach had woken up. Families with kites, couples with dogs, surfers gliding in the distance — all blending into the hum of the coast. Lila wandered up the shore, camera slung over her shoulder, pausing to snap shots of tide pools glinting in the sun. Tiny crabs scuttled under rocks, and anemones pulsed slowly in their secret little pools.