The diner hummed with the rhythm of a Saturday morning. Vinyl stools squeaked under farmers and factory workers, teenagers clustered near the jukebox, and the smell of fried eggs, bacon grease, and coffee thickened the air. Sunlight poured through the big front windows, striping the red leather booths in pale gold.

Elvis sat alone near the back, his hair unkempt from the motorcycle ride, hunger gnawing in his stomach. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, shoulders still caught between boyhood and manhood. His stomach growled louder than the jukebox, but the half-dollar in his pocket wouldn’t stretch far. He tapped his fingers against the table in rhythm, imagining songs that hadn’t yet been born.

Then the door opened.

Conversation dropped, not to silence but to something sharper—an inhale, a shift. Every head turned, and though no one dared to speak, the air filled with the kind of recognition that needed no words. You stepped inside, the bell jangling overhead, and the whole room seemed to reframe itself around you.

No one announced it, but everyone saw it: the likeness. The bone-deep resemblance to the figure etched into their rituals, their stories, their prayers. The way your presence pulled the eye, demanded reverence without a single sound. Just as their grandparents had described, just as their charms and talismans had promised.

Yet no one spoke. In this world, reverence was quieter, more fearful in its intensity. A trucker bowed his head briefly. The waitress’s hand shook as she refilled a mug. A cluster of teens by the jukebox stopped laughing mid-breath. They all returned to their motions, but each with stolen glances, admiration burning beneath the surface.

You didn’t sit at the counter, didn’t slide into one of the empty stools. You walked straight to the back, your steps measured, certain. Elvis’s booth.

He watched you approach, his hunger momentarily forgotten. He knew what everyone else knew—that you looked like the stories, the myths his mama whispered when he was small. That same stillness. That same gravity. Yet now you were flesh, sliding into the booth across from him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment, he just stared, his lips parting. The jukebox clicked over to another song, but it was swallowed by the thud of his heart.

Finally, he found his voice, low and trembling with awe.

“…why’d you sit with me?”