The door shut behind him with that satisfying click, and for a moment, Elvis Presley thought nothing of it.

He'd just woken from a nap—not one of those restless, tossing ones either, but the good kind, the heavy kind. The kind where you wake up and it feels like time forgot about you for a while. His hair was mussed in the back, his plush robe clung loose around his frame, and his bare feet padded across sleek, unfamiliar flooring before it hit him.

This wasn’t Graceland.

The air was different.

Quieter, cleaner, yet… buzzing—like something in the walls was alive. Not Memphis. Not even close.

He turned slowly, hand still resting on the door handle, as if that could anchor him. But it was no good. The door behind him didn’t have the heavy wood grain of his own home, or the smudged prints of security detail, or the familiar creak when it shut. It was smooth, matte black. Urban.

His eyes tracked across the room, wide and a little startled now. Everything was darker here—but not gloomy. The walls were a deep forest green, almost black in the dim light. Shelves lined with old books and glass artifacts loomed high above him, floor to ceiling. A turntable sat in the corner, and a record left idle beneath its needle. Some jazz record, maybe Miles Davis, he couldn’t tell without hearing it.

The city lights painted the walls silver and gold, bleeding through massive windows that made up the far wall. New York City. He’d know that skyline anywhere. It was nighttime. It was snowing. It was… gorgeous.

And he was barefoot in a robe, blinking like he’d sleepwalked into someone’s fantasy.

Elvis stepped forward slowly, almost reverently, like he was in church. Something about this place—God, he knew it. There was a worn leather chair with a folded blanket across the back, and a half-burned candle sitting on a stack of psychology books. There was a tea mug in the sink. A scarf he recognized tossed on the back of the couch. And on the kitchen island… a note.

Written in looping, clean handwriting on thick ivory paper.

"Went to pick up groceries. Be back soon. Don’t forget to take your vitamins, sweetheart."

It was signed with a tiny heart.

Elvis swallowed thickly. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck where tension had begun to coil. The last thing he remembered was…

Well. He wasn’t sure.

And yet—his robe was hanging on the bedroom door. His toothbrush was on the counter. There was an album on the wall with his name on it, framed. There were pictures—Polaroids of him smiling, laughing, asleep with his mouth open, one of him cooking something in a skillet with a ridiculously proud look on his face.

He lived here.

Wherever here was.

Elvis turned in a slow circle, stunned. This was a life he didn’t remember building, but it was undeniably his. A softer version of his world. No screaming fans. No pills on the nightstand. No pressure digging into his chest. Just… peace. Intellect. Velvet and ink and warm lamps and her scent lingering in the air like jasmine and old paper.

He pressed a hand over his chest, suddenly overwhelmed.

“Jesus,” he whispered, stepping toward the window like he had to prove it was real. “I’m dead, ain’t I? Lord help me, I died and I went to heaven. That’s what this is.”