Kaka, 2018 : Chapter 2

“Hey, young man, wake up! You can’t sleep here like this—come on, wake up,” an elderly voice said, shaking Kaká’s shoulder. 

“Get up before you catch a cold,” the man added gently. 

Kaká snapped awake, heart pounding. He sat up so quickly that something slipped from his hand and landed softly on the grass. 

“Whoa! You scared me,” the elderly man exclaimed, stepping back with a laugh. “Young people—always so jumpy.”

He bent down and kindly picked up the object—a small clay jar, decorated with fine patterns—and handed it back to Kaká. 

“You alright, son?” the man asked, his kind face creased with concern and a Madrid accent lacing his words. 

Kaká’s head spun. The jar. The same one from last night, from the boy at the match. How was it here? 

Where was he?

He looked around. A beautiful park stretched out around him—green grass, quiet paths, the faint noise of a city in the distance. It was peaceful… and totally unfamiliar. 

He’d gone to sleep in Orlando, the jar on his nightstand, still holding onto that prayer for a second chance. And now… this? 

Kaká looked at the jar again, its weight somehow calming. Then he reached into his pocket and found his wallet. Hands shaking, he opened it. 

Bank cards—normal. But the ID made him freeze. 

Name: Kaka Izecson dos Santos Leite. Birth year: 2000. 

“2000?” Kaká whispered, stunned. 

His chest tightened. He was 35. He’d retired just last night. But the face on the ID—his face—looked so young. Seventeen. 

Kaká stood up fast, gripping the jar like a lifeline. The old man mumbled something in Spanish and slowly walked away, leaving him with a million questions. 

“Was this… really a second chance?” Kaká murmured. 

He reached for his phone, still in his pocket, and called a number he’d always known—his own. 

The line rang. 

“Hello? Who’s this?” a familiar voice answered. 

That voice. His voice. Older, rougher, but definitely his. 

“Is this… Ricardo?” Kaká asked, voice tight with emotion. 

“Who’s calling?” the voice on the other end replied cautiously. 

“I’m…” Kaká swallowed. “I’m you. Kaká.” 

Silence.

Then a sharp breath on the other end. “What?” 

“I know it sounds crazy,” Kaká said, pacing nervously. “I woke up in Madrid. My ID says I’m 17, born in 2000. But I remember everything—Orlando, the match, retiring.”

“This can’t be real. I’m still here… in São Paulo,” Ricardo said, his voice shaking.

They kept talking, both confused, trying to make sense of it. Ricardo, age 35, was still himself—retired footballer Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite. But in this version of the world, “Kaka” (no accents, just like the ID) was someone new: a 17-year-old, officially listed as Ricardo’s younger brother.

“I’m not someone who’s always existed…” Kaká said slowly, trying to wrap his mind around it. “But somehow everything fits. People believe I’ve always been part of the family.” 

Ricardo’s voice dropped. “This is like… a miracle. You’re me—but you’re not. How is this happening?” 

“I don’t know,” Kaká replied, staring down at the jar. “Last night, I prayed. I held this jar from the boy. Then I woke up here.” 

“We have to tell Mamãe,” Ricardo said quickly. “She’ll believe us. She always said God moves in strange ways.” 

Kaká nodded, even though Ricardo couldn’t see him. “Call her. I’ll stay on the line.”

Ricardo added Simone to the call. Her voice came through—warm, but shaking.

“Ricardo? What’s going on?” she asked anxiously. 

“Mamãe,” Ricardo began, “you won’t believe this. It’s… Kaká. He’s here. Not me—another him.” 

“Mamãe, it’s me,” Kaká said softly. “I don’t know how, but I’m 17 again. I’m in Madrid.” 

She gasped. “Meu Deus. Ricardo, is this real?”

“It’s him,” Ricardo confirmed. “He remembers everything. The Ballon d’Or. Orlando. Last night.” 

Her voice broke. “My son… God answered your prayer?” 

“I think so,” Kaká whispered, his eyes wet. “But the world thinks I’m your son. Ricardo’s younger brother. Just Kaka.” 

She whispered a prayer under her breath. “We’re coming to you. Me, Digão—we’ll fly to Madrid.” 

“No, Mamãe,” Kaká said quickly. “Not yet. I need time to understand this—how I fit in. If you come, people will notice. Please, wait.” 

She paused. “You’re my son. Both of you. I can’t just sit and—” 

“Please trust me,” Kaká said. “I’ll call every day. Let me figure this out first.” 

After promising over and over that he would return to Brazil soon, Kaka finally escaped the tidal wave of family concern. 

Kaka ended the call and looked out at the street.

Today’s Madrid was dazzling with sunlight, the sky a crystal blue like a polished gem. A bakery on the corner sent out warm, sugary aromas. Passersby strolled leisurely—young and old, men and women. Kids kicked footballs along the pavement, laughing as they ran.

Kaka found himself momentarily spellbound. 

Madrid truly was a beautiful place. 

But after leaving Real Madrid, he’d never come back to Spain. Too many painful memories. Still… he had always liked it here. 

Even so, something felt off. 

Whenever he tried to think back to his time at Real Madrid, it was like something was missing—like watching someone else’s life. The feelings were there… but far away.

The wins, the losses—it all felt blurry, like it was behind a curtain. 

Why?

A weird feeling started growing in Kaká’s chest. Maybe once he met Ricardo in person, things would make more sense.  

Just then, a couple walked past the café mid-argument. The girl’s eyes were red. The guy, wearing a Real Madrid No. 7 jersey, looked upset. They stopped right next to Kaká’s table. 

“What do you even want from me? Why do you keep making such a big deal out of this?” the guy said, frustrated. 

“A big deal?!” the girl shot back. “You don’t have time for anything I ask you to do, but you never miss a Real Madrid match!” 

“It’s just football!” the guy replied, his voice rising. 

“No—it’s all you care about!” she snapped. 

Kaká noticed people nearby got quieter. But when he looked around, everyone was acting normal. 

He held back a laugh, not wanting to be noticed, and leaned behind a buff guy at the next table. Wide-eyed, he listened in.

I mean, who could resist some drama? 

“Why don’t you just date football?” the girl yelled. “Or Ronaldo, since you love him so much?!” 

Pfft! 

Kaká almost spat out his coffee. He swallowed it down fast, then coughed, trying not to lose it. 

That sound snapped the girl back to reality. Realizing people might be watching, her anger boiled over. 

“We’re done!” she shouted, then stormed off. 

The guy just stood there, totally lost. 

“Hey, what are you waiting for? Go after her!” the big guy at the next table called out. 

But the guy didn’t move—he wasn’t chasing her. 

Kaká, meanwhile, noticed something in his hand. 

Two Real Madrid match tickets. From where he sat, he could clearly read them: tonight’s game. 

“Hey, wait!” Kaká called out. 

The boy’s name was Steve. 

Still embarrassed from the breakup scene, Steve turned when he heard a calm, clear voice behind him. 

There was a guy sitting by the street—really good-looking, someone you’d notice in any crowd. 

But it wasn’t just that. He had this peaceful, grounded vibe. Even though he looked young, there was something deeper in the way he carried himself—like he’d been through stuff. Like he knew things most people didn’t. 

And now, those big, calm eyes were locked on Steve like nothing else around mattered. 

Steve’s heart jumped. 

Thump. Thump. 

“You selling the ticket?” Kaká asked. 

Steve blinked. 

“Your ticket—can I buy it?” Kaká repeated. 

Sell it? 

He’d worked hard to get those tickets. 

But for some reason… Steve didn’t want to say no. 

Kaká noticed the pause and stood up, smiling. “Just one. I’ll pay the full price,” he said gently. 

Up close, Steve froze again. His brain kind of short-circuited. He just nodded. 

Kaká smiled wide, flashing a perfect row of white teeth. 

In front of him, Steve stood still, his head spinning.