Chapter 1 – I Woke Up in Penedono
A thick morning fog blanketed the village of Penedono, curling through the stone streets and lingering on the tiled rooftops like a pale shroud. The air was cold and damp, and the golden leaves of the vineyard vines trembled in the light northern breeze. In a small stone house on the edge of the village, a ten-year-old boy slowly opened his eyes.
His name was Jota.
But the boy who awoke that morning wasn't just a village child.
His breath came slow and deep, his gaze steady yet uncertain. He scanned the modest room—stone walls, rough timber ceiling, a pale glow leaking through the small window. The room smelled of damp wood, old cloth, and something faintly sweet: cornmeal porridge. But more than that, the air felt heavy with silence.
"I'm... alive?"
The thought struck like thunder. Then, like a crashing tide, memories overwhelmed him: stadium lights, roaring crowds, the ball at his feet, the final whistle, then darkness. He remembered the pain, the crash, the ambulance siren... and then nothing.
He had died.
Or so he thought.
And yet here he was, breathing again—trapped in a body that wasn't his, in a time and place that felt unfamiliar and eerily real.
The door creaked open gently. A woman stepped in carrying a steaming bowl. Her face was tired, lined with age, but her eyes held warmth.
"Jota, you're awake?" she said softly.
He looked at her. Something inside this body recognized her—but not him. He didn't know her, not truly. Still, the word came out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"...Mãe."
Her face lit up with relief as she sat beside him. "You've been asleep for three days. I almost took you to the clinic in Viseu."
He nodded faintly. His voice was still weak, and his thoughts tangled. The weight of this second life pressed down on him. He lowered his gaze to his small hands—scraped, brown, familiar yet not his.
A little girl sat on the floor near the wall, hugging a ragged cloth doll. Her curls were messy, her cheeks round and flushed with curiosity.
"Ana," the woman called. "Look, your brother's awake."
The girl hopped up and grinned. Then she raised her arms and yelled, "Siuuu!"
Jota froze.
That celebration… he knew it by heart. He had done it himself—once, alongside Cristiano Ronaldo, under the lights of a roaring stadium.
Now, he was nothing more than a village boy with secondhand shoes and foggy memories.
---
That day passed slowly. The fog didn't lift. From the small window, Jota could see the old vineyard hills and the cobbled road winding up toward the trees. Though he didn't know this place with his own memories, his body did. He moved like someone half-possessed—aware of the motions, but questioning the purpose.
Dona Helena, the woman he now called "Mother," was a simple baker. Widowed years ago after her husband died in a timber accident, she raised two children alone: Jota and Ana.
They lived modestly, selling corn bread, pastéis de nata, and potato fritters on market days. No one in the village had much. But they had dignity, quiet routine, and a sense of surviving together.
Ana was four—bright, loud, and always dancing or talking. She followed Jota like a shadow, asking questions and offering him strange childlike wisdom.
When the fog finally lifted in the afternoon, Jota stepped into the backyard. Cold air swept against his face. The ground was slick with dew, and the branches above were bare.
In the corner, half-buried beneath firewood, he spotted a pair of worn football boots. He pulled them out. The leather was cracked, the laces nearly gone.
"Those were your father's," Helena said from the doorway. "He used to play in village tournaments. Nothing fancy."
Jota stared at them. He knew they were ordinary. But they felt heavier in his hands than any boots he'd worn before. They carried something else—memory, weight, loss.
He slipped them on. They fit. He walked a few paces, then kicked a small stone toward a rusted barrel. It clanked in.
Ana clapped. "Goal!"
Jota just gave a faint smile.
---
Two days later, he returned to school.
The Escola Básica de Penedono sat atop a hill, surrounded by olive trees and old stone fences. The building was painted white, its windows trimmed in fading blue. Inside, the classroom walls held faded posters—one in particular showing Cristiano Ronaldo, arms outstretched in celebration.
> "Work hard in silence. Let success make the noise."
There were 18 children in his class. Wooden desks, creaking chairs, and a world that moved slowly. Jota took the seat by the window. He didn't speak much. He listened, observed, and drew silently in the margins of his notebook—formations, arrows, strategies.
During physical education, Sr. Manuel, the gym teacher, called them to the dirt field behind the school.
"Light drills today," he said. "Next week, we begin tryouts for the tournament! Torneio Esperança do Norte! Scouts from Viseu may visit!"
The children cheered. They all rushed to claim forward positions. But Jota stepped aside—toward the left wing. He waited.
The ball was tossed into play. Chaos erupted. Kids stumbled, shouted, and kicked wildly.
But Jota watched. When the ball bounced loose, he dashed in from the left. One touch. One step. A shot low and fast.
The ball skimmed past the defenders, brushed the post, and went in.
Silence.
Then a whistle.
Sr. Manuel frowned. "Where did you learn that, Jota?"
He shrugged. "In a dream, senhor."
---
The days grew shorter as autumn deepened. Jota walked home along the winding cobbled road, his boots slung over one shoulder. He passed vineyards gone gold and brown, old stone wells, and sheep grazing behind wire fences.
At home, Helena prepared bean soup with rice, and Ana played on the floor with folded paper.
"I made a flag," she said proudly. "For the tournament. When you play, I'll wave it and yell, 'Vamos, Jota!'"
He chuckled, but his chest ached.
How could he explain? He wasn't just a Jota. He was Jota—once known throughout Europe, now reduced to childhood. To stone houses and paper flags.
That night, he sat by the window with the old radio hissing softly. A newsreader's voice came through:
> "Benfica draw with Porto, goals by João Neves and Mehdi Taremi... Diogo Jota remains absent after his tragic car accident—"
His heart stilled.
So the world still thought he was dead.
He looked outside. The fog was returning. The village lights shimmered faintly in the mist.
> "Cristiano... if you could hear me. I'm not gone. Just... lost. For now."
Ana climbed onto his lap with her blanket.
"Kakak," she mumbled. "You look sad."
"I'm not," he whispered. "Just thinking."
"Don't think too hard. You'll be famous again, I know it."
He nodded.
Again. She said again.
He smiled. Maybe she was wiser than she looked.
---
Later that week, Sr. Manuel handed out tournament forms. Jota took one quietly.
Behind him, two boys whispered.
"He's weird. Sick for days, then scores goals like a pro."
"Maybe he's from the city... but his mom's just a baker."
Jota ignored them.
He had one goal.
That night, he stood barefoot in the backyard. The stars glimmered. The boots were beside him.
Ana joined him, holding a tiny paper microphone.
"When you become famous," she said, "I'll be your commentator."
He looked at her.
"I'll say, 'And here comes Jota—legend of Portugal!'"
He laughed. A real, small laugh.
Then he looked up at the stars again.
> "One day, Ana. They'll know. Jota didn't die. He was reborn."
And in the quiet night of northern Portugal, the legend stepped back onto the earth—one barefoot at a time.
---