The sun peeked through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the faded wallpaper. Tinsley stirred, her dream of Rex still lingering—something she couldn't quite shake. She sat up, stretching her arms. The notebook lay beside her, its pages crinkled from a restless sleep, the city stirred—the distant hum of traffic, the promise of a new day.
"Rex," she whispered. "Was he real? Or just a figment of my imagination?"
Tinsley dressed, her heart torn between skepticism and hope. She'd explore more of Memphis today.
Downstairs in the lobby, the manager greeted her. "Morning, sugar. Ready for another day in Memphis?"
Tinsley nodded. "Yes. Maybe today—"
But before she could finish, the manager pointed to the door. "Look who just walked in."
And then, as if scripted by fate, the door swung open. There he is—the Rockin' Kid himself, Rex Foster. His hair was jet black and perfectly combed. The fan girls gasp, their hands flying to their mouths. Some tremble, others tear up. It's as if time has stopped. Rex strides through the crowd, his charisma palpable. He winks at a blushing teenager, tousles a little girl's hair, and stops to sign autographs. The lobby erupts into a chorus of "Thank you, Rex!" and "We love you!"
Tinsley stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Rex—real, flesh and blood—was here, and he had no idea she existed. She watched as he approached the hotel manager.
"Ma'am," Rex said, his voice a velvet whisper. "I need a quiet place to rest. Somewhere away from the crowd."
The manager, starstruck but professional, nodded. "Of course, Mr. Foster. We have a suite on the top floor. It's private and serene."
Rex glanced around as if sensing Tinsley's presence. She willed herself to move, to step forward, but her legs remained rooted. Rex was inches away, and all she could do was watch.
"Thank you," Rex said, his eyes lingering on the lobby. "And keep it hush-hush. I need a break from the chaos."
As Rex turned, his eyes widened, and for a heartbeat, the world stood still. Tinsley—still in shock—stumbled backward, her notebook slipping from her fingers. Their gazes locked, and in that charged moment, it was as if the echoes of Memphis whispered their secrets.
"Apologies, ma'am," Rex said, his voice warm and familiar. "Didn't mean to run into you."
Tinsley stood there, her mouth agape, as Rex's hand steadied her. She hadn't noticed it—the warmth, the strength—until now. His eyes held amusement as if he'd seen this reaction a thousand times.
"Easy there," he said, his voice a low drawl. "Wouldn't want you tripping."
Rex's hand brushed against the floor, retrieving Tinsley's fallen notebook. His fingers lingered on the cover—a collection of love notes, inked with dreams and longing. Their eyes met, and in that quiet exchange, the room held its breath.
"Yours?" he asked, his voice softer now.
She nodded, unable to form words. Rex straightened, the notebook cradled in his hand. His fingers brushed against her as he handed back the notebook. The touch—a fleeting connection—sent a shiver down Tinsley's spine.
"Keep writing," he said, voice a velvet whisper.
Rex, ever the master of discretion, followed the hotel manager through a side door. The lobby remained blissfully unaware—the fan girls whispering and giggling.
Tinsley took a deep breath, her racing heart gradually steadying. The lobby buzzed with fan girls, but she felt anchored—the keeper of a secret encounter. Rex was here, and whether it was real or a dream, she'd carry the echoes with her.
With newfound resolve, she adjusted her hairpin and stepped into the Memphis sunlight. The Rockin' Kid might rest in the suite above, but Tinsley? She had an adventure ahead of her in Memphis to see the Foster Mansion.
The cab wound through the streets, past clubs and shops. As they approached Preston Boulevard in a neighborhood, Tinsley's pulse quickened. The mansion loomed ahead—a Colonial Revival masterpiece, once owned by Rex himself.
The gates swung open, revealing the 13.8-acre estate. Tinsley stepped onto the hallowed grounds, her footsteps echoing with history. She'd see the golden records, the jeweled outfits, and maybe see him here.
Foster Mansion—the bridge between time and legend—beckoned, and Tinsley entered, ready to immerse herself in echoes.
Tinsley joined a guided tour of the mansion. As she stepped through the opulent rooms, she glimpsed the records, the outfits, and the intimate spaces where Rex had lived and created music. The tour guide shared stories of Rex's life, his family, and the legacy he's paving. The mansion was more than a house; it was a pilgrimage, a bridge between time and legend. And as she stood in the hallways, she whispered a love note.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the cobblestone path. Tinsley had just completed the guided tour, her mind still buzzing with fascinating anecdotes about the former residents. As she stepped outside the wrought iron gate, she noticed a weather wooden bench nestled under a sprawling oak tree.
The air was thick with the scent of magnolias, and she sank onto the bench, her legs tired from hours of exploration. The notebook she carried, filled with hastily scribbled notes and sketches, slipped from her grasp and landed on the seat beside her. Unaware of its absence, she gazed across the manicured lawn, lost in thought.
Minutes turned into hours, and the shadows lengthened. The distant hum of traffic reached her ears, and she realized she needed to hail a cab.
The cab pulled up to the curb, its engine purring softly. She slid into the back seat, grateful for the air conditioning after the sweltering heat outside. The driver glanced at her through the rear-view mirror, waiting for her destination. It was him—the same gruff man who had scoffed at her dreams and belittled her love for Rex.
She shifted uncomfortably, memories flooding back. His words had stung, but she'd held her ground, defending her passion for music and storytelling. Now, fate had reunited them, and she wondered if he recognized her, too.
"Where to?" His voice was gruff, businesslike.
"Um, the Main Hotel," she replied, her gaze darting to the gates of the mansion.
As the cab pulled away, she stole a glance at the driver. His eyes met hers in the mirror, and for a moment, she saw a hint of regret. Maybe he remembered their previous encounter—the spirited girl who refused to listen.
She wondered if he'd changed his mind about dreams, about Rex. Perhaps he'd softened. Or maybe he remained the same—a grizzled skeptic with a heart untouched by music's magic.
The cab driver's smirk appeared, revealing a missing tooth. "You're that dreamy-eyed girl," he rasped, his voice dripped with disdain. "The one who thinks music can change the world. Well, let me tell you something, sweetheart: dreams don't pay bills."
Tinsley's cheeks flushed, but she held her ground. "Music inspires people," she said, her fingers tracing patterns on her lap. "It connects souls, transcends boundaries."
He scoffed, eyes fixed on the road. "Rex ain't paying your rent, honey. And those stories in your little head? They won't put food on your table."
She clenched her jaw, anger building up. "Maybe not today," she retorted. "But someday. Isn't that worth something?"
He chuckled, a gravelly sound. "Worthless idealism," he muttered. "You'll learn soon enough."
As the city blurred past, Tinsley vowed to prove him wrong. Dreams might not pay the bills, but they fueled her spirit. And somewhere out there, Rex was still singing, urging her forward.
The hotel's entrance loomed ahead, its glass doors reflecting the city lights. She paid the driver. As she stepped out of the cab, the driver leaned across the seat, his eyes narrowing.
"Rex ain't worth spit," he spat, his voice carrying over the street noise. "Just a has-been in a rhinestone suit."
Her cheeks flushed, anger and disappointment warring within her. She wanted to defend rock 'n' roll, but words failed her. Instead, she slammed the cab door shut and watched as he sped away, tires screeching.
Inside the hotel, she climbed the marble staircase. Her pulse raced, fueled by the cab driver's venomous words. She stormed down the hotel corridor. Rex, a has-been? The audacity! Her mind churned with retorts, each syllable a defiant note in the symphony of her anger.
But as she rounded the corner, her momentum collided with something solid. She stumbled. Blinking away her fury, she looked up—and there, rubbing his shoulder stood a man with amused eyes.
"Ma'am," he drawled, his voice rich and velvety. "You seem a bit flustered. Everything okay?"
Rex Foster—stood there, larger than life, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Tinsley couldn't form words; her tongue felt like lead. Was this a dream? A hallucination?
He chuckled, that familiar crooked smile playing on his lips. "Cat got your tongue, darlin'?"
She blinked her heart racing. "You—you're real?"
He extended his hand, and she hesitantly touched it. Warm, solid—real. "As real as the Memphis sun," he said. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Rex."
She stammered, "I—I'm a fan. Always have been."
His laughter was like a melody. "Well, ain't that somethin'? You got a name, fan?"
"Tinsley," she managed. "Tinsley Shana."
He winked. "Tinsley, let's make a deal. You keep dreamin', and I'll keep singin'. Deal?"
Tinsley nodded, tears blurring her vision. "Okay."
Rex, ever perceptive, noticed the tremor in her voice. He paused, staring at her. "What's troublin' you, Tinsley?"
She hesitated, torn between awe and vulnerability. "It's just… life," she admitted. "The dreams I chase, the doubts that haunt me."
He leaned against the corridor wall, eyes softening. "Dreams ain't easy, darlin'. But they're worth it. You keep singin' your song, even when the world doesn't listen."
His words settled over her like a warm blanket. Maybe Rex wasn't just a legend; maybe he was a guardian of dreams. She wiped her tears, grateful for the encounter.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He winked. "Anytime, Tinsley."
The air seemed to be still, the corridor hushed as if holding its breath. Tinsley's gaze remained fixed on the floor. But when she finally looked up, she noticed him staring at her. His lips curled into a half-smile, and her heart skipped a beat.
Tinsley's cheeks flushed crimson, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Um," she stammered, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of the air conditioning. "Why are you staring at me?" Her heart raced, and she wondered if this was all a dream—a romantic twist in the plot of her life.
Rex chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, darlin'," he said, his voice low, a velvet rumble. "I reckon I'm just tryin' to figure you out." His gaze held hers, and Tinsley's blush deepened.
Tinsley's words hung in the air, poised on the tip of her tongue. She was about to ask Rex something else when panic washed over her. Her notebook—the repository of her heart's secrets—was missing. She had left it on the bench outside the Foster Mansion, where she had sat earlier. Tinsley's eyes widened, and she blurted out, "I—I left something important. Excuse me!" She turned and hurried back down the corridor, her heart racing. Destiny had led her to Rex, but her words were waiting for her on that lonely bench, under the shadow of the Kid's mansion.
Tinsley's footsteps echoed down the corridor, her heart pounding. She hated herself for running off like that, leaving Rex standing there, probably bewildered by her sudden departure. The bench outside of the mansion seemed miles away now, and she hoped her notebook was still there, waiting for her.
As she reached the lobby, she glanced back, half-expecting to see Rex following her. But he was nowhere in sight. Tinsley took a deep breath, determined to retrieve her words and return in hopes of speaking with him again. Destiny had nudged her, and she wasn't about to let it slip away.