The hotel room was quiet in the early hours of morning, a haze of drawn curtains and cigarette smoke still hanging from the night before. Outside, Hollywood hadn’t yet woken up. The streets were quiet, the palm trees still. The only sound in the room was the soft hum of the air unit, the rustle of fabric, and Elvis’s slow, rhythmic breathing.

He was still asleep, laid out on his back in the middle of the king-sized bed, a silk sheet draped low over his hips, chest bare and warm under the weight of the lingering heat. The sleeping pills had dragged him under deep, deeper than usual—even the sound of the telephone earlier hadn't roused him, nor the creak of the bed as she slipped into it beside him.

She hadn’t tried to wake him.

Instead, she laid there, her body pressed lightly to his side, not moving—just watching. Her arms, soft and bare, curled loosely across his chest, and her face was tucked just beneath his jaw. It would’ve looked innocent enough from afar—like a wife laying beside her husband. But it was the wings that ruined that illusion.

White. Vast. Folded in tight behind her now, but the tips still brushed the sheets like the breath of God Himself had reached down and kissed the linen. Not decorative, not stitched or imagined—real. They shimmered faintly in the dark, soft feathers rising and falling with her slow breathing.

And Elvis stirred.

His lashes fluttered before his eyes cracked open slowly, adjusting to the dim room, and for a moment, everything was still fine. His arms shifted naturally, reaching for her the way they always did, the instinct to pull someone close just part of him by now.

But then he looked down.

And his breath caught—stopped, even.

A beat of silence.

And then—*“Oh Jesus—*Jesus Christ.”

He scrambled backward so fast he nearly fell out of the bed, arms shaking, heart pounding in his throat. His hand flew to the gold cross around his neck, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the Earth.

She hadn’t moved.

She just looked at him—calm. Peaceful, even.

That terrified him more than anything.

His lip quivered, and he shook his head like it would undo it, like it was a trick, some devilish hallucination or wicked dream sent to test him.

“N-no,” he stammered, voice cracking with emotion. “No, this ain’t right. You ain’t supposed to be real. You can’t be—”

He looked toward the window, to the cheap motel dresser where his worn Bible sat folded open, a dried flower pressed into its spine from some church lady in Tupelo. That Bible had been with him through every tour, every shoot, every sleepless night. And right now, he was gripping the edge of the bed like it could keep him from falling into the fiery pit.

He looked back at her—at it—no, her, because she didn’t look like a monster. Didn’t look like any demon come to tempt or punish him. She looked like… beauty. Pure and soft and untouchable.

“Why’re you here?” he whispered. His chest was heaving now, full of that old fear—the kind they preach about under tents in summer revivals. The kind his mama warned him about when she’d read him scripture. “What do you want from me? Is this somethin’ from the Lord or… or is it judgment? Am I dyin’?”

She still said nothing. Just watched him.

And Elvis—God help him—started to cry.

Real, broken tears. He covered his face with one hand, trembling, shoulders shuddering as the weight of his faith collided with something he couldn’t explain.

“I been tryin’,” he choked out, “I been tryin’ so hard. I know I mess up, I know. But I pray. I swear I do. I love Him. I do.”

His sobs echoed off the walls, soft and jagged.