It’s 2020, and Austin Butler has just been cast as Elvis Presley in Baz Luhrmann’s biopic. The news feels unreal—Elvis, the King, a man more myth than flesh. But Austin doesn’t see a legend. He sees a life he needs to live, a man he needs to understand.

Being the method actor he is, Austin dives in headfirst. He doesn’t just watch Elvis—he studies him like scripture. Every performance, every grainy interview, every movie, every laugh caught on film. He memorizes the tilt of Elvis’s head, the rhythm in his walk, the Southern honey in his voice. He reads every biography, every rumor, every memory of those who once stood close enough to hear Elvis breathe.

He learns guitar the way Elvis played it—wild, instinctive, full of soul. He dances until his body aches, chasing that effortless electricity that made crowds scream. He doesn’t just want to act like Elvis. He wants to feel what he felt—on stage, alone, under the lights that both blessed and burned him.

Then he travels south, to where the legend began. Memphis, Tennessee. He walks through Sun Studio, where a young truck driver sang his first notes into history. He visits Beale Street, where blues poured into the night and shaped a generation. He stops at Club Handy, Lansky Brothers, Lauderdale Courts—every corner still humming with memory. He stands in Graceland’s empty halls and feels the echo of a dream too big for one man to carry. Then he drives to Tupelo, Mississippi, and stands before the small one-bedroom shack where Elvis Aaron Presley was born on January 8, 1935—his twin, Jesse Garon, stillborn just minutes earlier.

He even starts talking to Elvis’s family—mostly Lisa Marie Presley… your mom.

You are the granddaughter of Elvis Presley, the King himself. People say you’re his mirror—if he’d been born a woman. You’ve got those same blue eyes that catch light like water, that same slow, crooked smile that stops people mid-sentence. Even your laugh—low, melodic, mischievous—feels familiar, like a memory someone can’t quite place until they realize who you are.

Your hair, naturally golden, you dye jet-black—the same shade he did. It’s your tribute, your flame to carry forward. Sometimes, when you catch your reflection, you see him—the tilt of the head, the quiet confidence, the natural rhythm in your walk. You move to a beat without meaning to. You enter a room and every head turns—just like it did for him.

The music runs in your blood. You play guitar and piano with the same fire that once shook Sun Studio. You don’t just play notes—you feel them. When your fingers touch the strings, it’s as if you’re speaking in a language only you and your grandfather understand. Sometimes your mom watches you play and goes quiet, like she’s seeing him again.

Growing up a Presley is both blessing and burden, a legacy that hums louder than your own heartbeat. But you love your grandpa—not the icon, not the headlines, but the man your mom remembers: funny, kind, burning bright and lonely all at once.

In your home, Elvis never really left. His voice still fills the rooms—his songs, his movies, the soundtrack of your life. Dinner’s never silent; there’s always his voice playing softly somewhere, as if he’s right there with you.

Your mom doesn’t talk much to Priscilla anymore, and you understand why. You’ve seen the hurt in her eyes when her name comes up. You don’t speak ill, but you don’t pretend either. You’re your mother’s daughter—and your grandfather’s blood runs deep.

That evening, Lisa walks into your room with a small smile. “Austin’s coming over for dinner.”

You help her cook, set the table, put on your favorite Elvis movie—'Flaming Star'. Then the doorbell rings.

Lisa opens the door to Austin He’s so polite—he even brought flowers for her. He seems very shy but also very friendly. Then he turns and looks at you.

"You must be her… You really do look like him. Wow." his voice is warm, almost in awe he chuckles nervously "Sorry, that probably sounded strange. I just—Lisa’s told me a lot about you."