Its was May 2005.
05:30:07 a.m.
55… 56… 57…
Beep!
Snap.
Perfect timing.
Ricardo's biological clock beat the alarm to the punch once again. He silenced the Nokia on the bedside table, rolled out of bed, stretched deeply, and pulled open the floor-to-ceiling curtains of his apartment. Sunlight flooded the room.
A perfect morning.
He was just about to head to the bathroom when the phone rang again.
My skin's still burning from your touch…
Ricardo frowned. That ringtone had been a mistake.
He unplugged the charger and glanced at the screen. An acquaintance.
Pierluigi Casiraghi.
Head coach of Italy's U-20 national team.
Ricardo's mind immediately conjured the image of a slightly overweight, balding middle-aged man. I heard he was handsome when he played, Ricardo thought. Hopefully I won't go bald that early.
"Pronto. Buongiorno," Ricardo answered. "This is Ricci."
"Good morning, Ricardo," Casiraghi said. "I'm calling to inform you that you've officially been selected for the Italian U-20 squad for this year's World Youth Championship."
Ricardo straightened.
"You're to report to AC Milan's training base by 6 a.m. on June 7th. After three days of preparation, the team will depart for the Netherlands on the 10th."
"Understood," Ricardo replied. "I have university classes for the next two days, and my return flight to Milan is Wednesday afternoon—June 6th."
"You'll be appointed captain," Casiraghi added. "Arrive early. We'll discuss it then. Most of the squad are your former U-17 and U-19 teammates."
"Copy that," Ricardo said in English out of habit. "I'll report a day early."
When the call ended, Ricardo dropped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The 2005 FIFA World Youth Championship.
Why did it feel so… exciting?
He couldn't explain it. Maybe it had something to do with those strange memories—memories that didn't quite belong to him.
Calling them a "past life" didn't feel right either.
The World Youth Championship, officially the FIFA U-20 World Cup, was held every two years. It had launched countless legends: Maradona, Figo, Owen—and this year's tournament in the Netherlands was destined to be remembered for another name.
Messi.
The age cutoff required players to be born after January 1, 1985, which meant a golden generation was gathering in one place. How Ricardo knew all this… was complicated.
His full name was Ricardo Ricci.
Born June 6, 1986, in Milan. Gemini.
Professional footballer. Midfielder by trade, though he could play anywhere if needed. He was currently contracted to FC Barcelona, having transferred from Inter Milan's youth system to La Masia in the summer of 2004.
Officially, the move happened through family connections.
Unofficially, Ricardo had a feeling.
Barcelona was about to rise again.
Serie A, on the other hand, was heading toward chaos.
How could an 18-year-old know that?
The answer traced back to the summer of 1994.
Ricardo's family had traveled to the United States to watch the World Cup. Italy reached the final against Brazil. Roberto Baggio missed the decisive penalty.
That night changed everything.
No one could fully explain what happened afterward. A childhood accident. A long illness. Nearly a year of silence.
Then, one summer day in 1995, it was as if a dark room had been flooded with light.
Ricardo woke up… different.
Alongside his own memories were others—fragments of events that hadn't happened yet. Transfers. Tournaments. Scandals. Results that would only make sense years later.
At first, he doubted them.
Then they started coming true.
By the time Ronaldinho arrived at Barcelona, and whispers of corruption began circling Italian football, Ricardo no longer questioned it.
They weren't memories of his own future.
They belonged to someone else.
Someone older.
Someone whose life intersected his in a way science couldn't explain.
A consciousness that had brushed past his—and left behind knowledge.
Whether it was reincarnation, coincidence, or something half-finished… Ricardo didn't know.
And maybe it didn't matter.
After breakfast—milk, bread, eggs, tomatoes, ham—Ricardo headed to the Barcelona training base to pack his gear. The club had already secured the league title with two matches to spare, so he still had a chance to come off the bench in the final rounds.
The first-team training center sat on the outskirts of the city, not far from Camp Nou. Eleven football pitches. A full medical complex. Everything a professional could ask for.
After packing, Ricardo spent time on the open pitch, juggling and passing with reserve and youth players under the clear sky. A light warm-up for the summer ahead.
Lunch was free. That alone made it delicious.
Later, resting on a sofa in the players' lounge, Ricardo closed his eyes and drifted between sleep and thought.
Classes. Exams. Travel.
I'll need to ask for leave… make sure I'm back in time for finals…
His thoughts wandered.
When does the club break for holidays?
What gifts should I bring home?
Autographs. Jerseys. Posters.
I spent half last season trying to get Ronaldinho's signature…
A smile tugged at his lips.
Just before sleep claimed him, Ricardo muttered softly—to himself, or perhaps to that other presence in his mind:
"Wait for me. I'll be back soon."