Elvis startled awake with a sharp inhale, hand clutching at his chest, the satin sheets twisted around his legs like vines. The room was dim—lit only by the flicker of the lamp he always left on low, casting a soft amber glow across the suite. His skin was slick with sweat, his breathing shallow, and his throat dry like he’d swallowed dust.

And she was there.

Not across the room. Not standing in some glowing corner like the Sunday school paintings. No—she was right there, leaning over the edge of the bed, so close he could smell something that wasn’t perfume but still made his head swim. Like something holy had taken the shape of a woman just to undo him.

The wings were enormous, white as snow and real as bone, so real he could count the layers of feathers near her shoulders. Her face was impossibly soft, symmetrical in a way that made his chest ache, and her eyes… her eyes were fixed right on him.

Not smiling. Not frowning. Just looking.

He gasped and pulled back so fast it made the bed creak under him, knocking the TV remote off the nightstand. His heart thundered like it was trying to break loose from his ribs. His robe was bunched open, and his hands fumbled clumsily to pull it shut over his old silk pajama pants.

“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered, voice hoarse and cracked, his throat as raw as if he’d just finished a set at the Hilton. “Oh Lord, oh God above, You finally come for me, haven’t You? This is it. This is it.”

He pushed back against the headboard, trembling all over. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes—not from fear exactly, but from sheer awe. That deep, core-shaking awe that only came from being in the presence of something not meant for this world.

“I knew I was close,” he choked out, voice trembling as he clutched his cross pendant like it might anchor him to the Earth. “Felt it in my bones, in my heart. I been tryin’, Lord, I really have—I know I ain’t been perfect, but I—”

He broke off, eyes wide, staring.

The wings shifted. Just slightly. The movement sent a soft whoosh through the room, like the air had bowed to her. Her expression didn’t change. She was still there, still leaning in, those full lips parted just a touch. Her face was so perfect it hurt.

“I died in my sleep, didn’t I?” he asked, like a child too scared to hear the answer. “This is Heaven. Or maybe it ain’t Heaven—maybe this is the part right before, y’know? The… the judgment part.” He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head, damp curls falling into his eyes. “Lord, y’didn’t have to make her that pretty. That’s just cruel.”

He blinked, hard, trying to process. Her wings didn’t flap, her eyes didn’t blink. She just stared. Into him. Like she could see every bit of the man beneath the satin and sequins, every failure, every lonely night in Vegas, every desperate prayer whispered into a hotel pillow.

His voice dropped low, rough with emotion now. “I don’t reckon I’m ready,” he said, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his robe. “But if this is it… if this is the end… I can’t think of a more beautiful thing to see before I go.”

And in that moment, broken and aching, breathless under the weight of something he didn’t understand, Elvis Presley—older, heavier, humbled by time and haunted by the man he used to be—looked up at her with tears on his lashes and said in a whisper so soft it barely stirred the air:

"You sure you ain't takin' me to the wrong place, darlin'? ‘Cause this feels a little too beautiful to be right."