Darkness.
A silence so profound it felt alive. Micheal floated in that void, weightless, without pain, without time. The roar of the stadium, the pounding of his heart, the shimmering lights—all gone, swallowed by an eternal black.
So this is… death? he thought. There was no fear in his mind, only a faint regret echoing like a distant bell. I didn't… I couldn't score… Italy…
And then, it came.
A voice. Calm, deep, yet warm like the hearth of an old home. It didn't echo—it existed everywhere, around him and inside him.
"Micheal Bianchi…"
His thoughts froze. Who… who's there? He couldn't speak, but the question surged within his mind like a scream.
The voice continued, ignoring the storm of confusion in his soul.
"Your time has not come. The thread of your story is not meant to end here."
What… what does that mean? I'm dead. I felt it. My heart—
"You were meant for more. Your dream still breathes."
Dream. The word pierced through his soul like a ray of light. The dream… the World Cup… I failed…
"You will have another chance. A new life. In the same world you left… but renewed."
Micheal's mind spun. A new life? Was this heaven? Some divine joke?
Why? Why me?
"Because you wished for it, stronger than anyone. Because your will burned even as your body fell."
The warmth of that voice felt almost human, yet greater, something that no mortal tongue could hold.
"But remember this: nothing is given freely. Your path will be harder than before. And this time, the world will not wait for you."
Before Micheal could form another thought, light burst through the darkness. A tidal wave of radiance swallowed everything—his mind, his memories, his name.
And then—silence again. But not the silence of death. The silence of… a heartbeat.
---
The First Breath
Waaah! WAAAAAH!
The cry of a newborn filled a quiet hospital room. White walls, soft lights, the faint smell of antiseptic. A young man with short dark hair and sharp features cradled the small bundle in trembling arms. His eyes shimmered with tears he didn't bother to hide.
"He's… beautiful," he whispered, his voice breaking.
Beside him, a woman with silky black hair lay on the bed, her skin glistening with sweat but her face glowing with relief and joy. She reached out, stroking the baby's tiny hand.
"Ferdinand… look at him," she said, her Japanese accent delicate, her tone filled with awe. "He's… perfect."
Ferdinand smiled through his tears, kissing her forehead.
"Yes, Kaede. Our little Raphael Caicedo."
The name resonated softly in the room, marking the beginning of a new story.
---
Fragments of a New Life
Time passed in flashes—soft, golden fragments of Raphael's infancy. He didn't remember the voice anymore, not consciously. But somewhere deep within, a strange awareness lingered, like an ember that refused to die out.
As a newborn, he often stared at his tiny hands for minutes, his bright blue eyes glimmering with curiosity far beyond his age. His parents noticed it too—the way he seemed so alert, so… present.
Kaede would hum lullabies in Japanese while rocking him gently, whispering words of love. Ferdinand, a former amateur footballer turned coach, would hold his son for hours, imagining the future.
"Look at those legs," Ferdinand would joke, tapping Raphael's chubby thighs as he kicked in the air. "Born to run, huh?"
Kaede would smile softly. "Don't push him too hard. Let him choose his path."
But the truth? The path was already chosen—by fate, by dreams that refused to die, by a voice that had promised a second chance.
---
One Year Later
Raphael's first steps came early—barely eleven months old. Wobbly, clumsy, but determined. Every time he fell, he pushed himself back up, his tiny fists clenched, his blue eyes burning with something wild, something fierce.
Ferdinand noticed. He couldn't explain it, but his son had a will that felt… unshakable.
By his first birthday, Raphael was walking confidently, chasing after soft plush balls around the living room, giggling when he managed to kick them.
"Did you see that?" Ferdinand exclaimed one evening as Raphael sent the plush ball rolling perfectly straight across the floor. "That was… that was a proper kick!"
Kaede laughed, though even she felt a spark of awe. "He's… different."
Different indeed.
---
Two Years Old – The First Spark
The sun spilled like molten gold over the small backyard where Ferdinand had set up a tiny plastic goal. He crouched behind it, clapping his hands as Raphael toddled forward, clutching a little ball almost too big for him.
"Come on, champ! Kick it here!"
Raphael grinned—a wide, toothy smile—and dropped the ball to the ground. His small foot swung with surprising precision. The ball rolled straight into the goal.
"GOOOAL!" Ferdinand shouted, throwing his arms up like a madman. Kaede laughed from the porch, shaking her head, but her eyes shone with pride.
From that day, something changed. Ferdinand started buying more balls, setting up cones, teaching him basic movements—not as a coach, but as a father sharing his passion.
And Raphael… absorbed everything. Like a sponge. Like he had done this before.
---
Three Years Old – A Glimpse of Destiny
By the time Raphael turned three, football wasn't just a game for him—it was oxygen. Every morning, he would waddle out to the backyard, clutching his favorite little ball, and start dribbling clumsily but tirelessly.
What stunned Ferdinand wasn't the enthusiasm—it was the elegance. The way Raphael's tiny body moved, the instinct behind every step, every feint. No one had taught him those things. They were… natural.
Sometimes, when Raphael was alone, he would kick the ball against the wall, over and over, until sweat dripped down his forehead. And in those moments, something flickered in his blue eyes—something no three-year-old should have.
A memory? A dream? He didn't know. He couldn't explain why his heart raced every time his foot struck the ball, why victory—even in a game with no opponents—felt so… necessary.
Kaede watched from the window one evening, her heart tightening. "Ferdinand," she whispered, "our son… he's special."
Ferdinand nodded slowly, his gaze locked on the boy who kicked with the determination of a man chasing redemption.
"Yes," he said softly. "Special… and destined for something great."
---
Raphael didn't know it yet. He didn't know about the past life, the promise, the broken dream. He only knew one thing:
Every time his foot touched the ball, his soul burned brighter.
And somewhere, far beyond his understanding, the voice that had given him this second chance whispered silently:
"Your time is coming, Raphael Caicedo. But are you ready to pay the price?"