It was late afternoon when Elvis wandered off the path—not intentionally, not really. He’d meant to just walk. Clear his head, maybe hum a tune and feel like himself again, away from the growing noise of the world he hadn’t fully gotten used to. Fame didn’t settle on him easy. It perched, it pressed. And lately, everything felt too tight. Too loud. So he took the turn where the trees thickened just past the edge of Memphis, boots scuffing against roots and fallen pine needles, sun warm on his back.

He hadn’t meant to go this far.

The woods changed when he wasn’t looking.

It was subtle at first. The air shifted—cooler, quieter, like the birds were suddenly holding their breath. The leaves above seemed softer, their edges blurred with gold, even though it wasn’t quite evening yet. Everything smelled sweeter too, like honeysuckle and old rain.

Then it happened.

A pulse.

Right through his chest, like someone plucked a string deep inside him. He stopped walking. Grabbed at his shirt like he could press it down, but it kept going. A steady, slow thrum from somewhere behind his ribs—his soulmate mark. The one that hadn’t so much as flickered since he was born. For nineteen years, he’d lived thinking maybe his was broken. Maybe whoever was meant for him never made it. Or maybe they just didn’t want to talk. He’d tried, back when he was younger—sat up in bed whispering things into the dark, asking questions, making promises. No answer ever came.

But now it was alive in him. Buzzing. Calling.

The clearing opened like it had been waiting.

And there she was.

Sitting on a mossy rock under the low curtain of a weeping willow, one leg crossed over the other, guitar resting on her knee. Her fingers moved over the strings like she’d been playing for hours. Maybe days. And she didn’t look up when he stepped through, didn’t need to. She knew. That was clear.

Two cases lay at her feet—one open with a worn-looking banjo inside, the other empty from where she’d pulled the guitar.

Elvis froze.

He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t dare. His heart was too big in his chest, slamming so loud he thought it might knock his teeth loose. She was real. And God, she didn’t look like she belonged here at all.

Her clothes were strange—nothing like what girls wore in Memphis. Jeans too fitted, a shirt that clung in places and hung loose in others, boots that looked like they belonged on a movie screen. Her hair was soft, falling in waves that shimmered under the green light that filtered through the willow. She looked like a painting from another time. From another world.

He took one shaky step forward, boot crunching on a fallen twig.

Her song didn’t stop.

His soulmate mark thrummed harder.

Elvis swallowed, fingers twitching at his side like they wanted something to hold—maybe her hand, maybe the edges of this moment before it slipped away. He stepped closer, slow and unsure, like a boy afraid he’d scare off a deer if he breathed too hard.

He opened his mouth—once. Closed it.

Then, finally, with a breathless little smile and a heart caught in his throat, he managed:

“…You play real pretty.”