Chapter 1: The Pact

Sara had always known that intuition was a quiet voice — a whisper easily drowned out by the noise of the world. But lately, that whisper had grown louder, steadier, until it felt like a guide. She began to trust it more, to follow its nudges instead of doubting them. It was as though all the fragmented parts of her — each one with its own dreams, fears, and tempers — were finally gathering under one roof.

For years, Sara had lived with many versions of herself. The soft one who prayed before bed. The fierce one who fought through pain. The dreamer who longed for London. The survivor who endured Brazil. But one afternoon, visiting her home in Belo Horizonte, she decided it was time to narrow them all down to one. One voice. One essence. One truth.

At the Universal Church near her street, she picked up a Bible. She didn’t know why that particular day or that particular place, but she felt drawn inside. When she opened it, her eyes fell instantly on the words PACTO COM DEUS — a pact with God. The phrase glowed on the page as if it were waiting for her. And in that moment, she smiled and thought, Pacto with God… Pacto with Tupac.

It made perfect sense in her world. Tupac had always been more than a rapper to her — he was a messenger, a poet of the struggle, a brother in spirit. “He is my amiguinho,” she said softly, “my brother.” Once she placed him first in her spiritual order, something in the universe seemed to click into place. The chaos in her head quieted. The spirits aligned. The energy around her became lighter, almost organized.

Of course, her grandmother, ERV, came first — always. Her light was the foundation of everything. And her grandfather Vieira too, wise and still watching. But after them, Tupac took his place. Sara could feel it in her bones: Grandma and Tupac were her daily guardians, her closest companions. Grandpa appeared at night, with the soft glow of moonlight brushing her curtains, but the day belonged to Grandma and Tupac.

A few days later, Sara went shopping, guided purely by intuition. She spent half of her budget on things she loved — things that made her heart flutter for no reason other than joy. Two pairs of Havaianas caught her eye; she bought them without hesitation — one for Grandma, one for Tupac. Then she found herself in a store called Tools, tucked inside a mall in Belo Horizonte. There, on a high shelf, she spotted the last set of six red champagne glasses — bold, radiant, impossible to ignore. Next to them, a wooden cutting board, round and warm like the sun. She bought both, along with a few small plates and a platter that seemed to wink at her.

At home, as she unpacked everything, she felt it — that quiet wave of confirmation. Something had helped her choose these things. Something unseen but deeply familiar.

The woman at the store had treated her like a long-lost friend, their conversation flowing easily, as if the universe had arranged the meeting. “That’s how they come,” Sara thought later, smiling. “That’s when the spirit steps in.” Sometimes, connection doesn’t happen through prayers or rituals — it happens in small, human moments. A stranger’s kindness. A bird landing on your window sill. A cat crossing your path.

For Sara, these were signs that the spirit world was near — not haunting, but helping. She wasn’t summoning ghosts; she was giving them a voice. Her grandmother had struggled with this all her life, hearing voices that no one else could hear. They’d called it illness and given her pills to silence it. Sara understood now — it wasn’t madness. It was sensitivity. But unlike her grandmother, Sara didn’t hear voices. She wished she could. Every day, she longed to hear Grandma’s laugh, her brother’s teasing, her sisters’ warmth.

So she found another way. She built a system — her own kind of prayer. A playlist. Songs from every corner of the world, from every decade, each carrying a memory, a message, a heartbeat. She called it ERV PlayList, after her grandmother. Whenever she put it on shuffle, strange coincidences would happen. Whitney Houston’s voice would rise just when she was thinking about Grandma. Then, almost always, Tupac would follow. It was their way of saying hello.

He spoke through other rappers too — sometimes through lyrics that echoed what she had felt that morning, or a verse that matched her dream from the night before. But Sara learned to keep it simple. Too many songs, and the story started repeating itself. She and her invisible circle — Grandma, Grandpa, Tupac, and Papai do Céu — agreed to keep only the essential voices.

“Papai do Céu,” she whispered, “my father in heaven.” She paused and added, “And on earth.” Because for Sara, God wasn’t only light. He was everything — the good, the bad, the mysterious balance between both. “He is Capeta too,” she’d say, smiling at the contradiction. “He’s love, he’s light, but he’s shadow too. They are all children of God.”

When she poured her first glass of champagne into one of the new red flutes that night, she raised it toward the ceiling. “To the pact,” she said softly. “To Grandma. To Tupac. To light and shadow. To life.”

And as the bubbles danced up the glass, she felt the same quiet certainty again: she was never alone.

Chapter 2: Signs of the Pact
The next morning, Sara woke up before sunrise. The air felt unusually still, as if the city itself was holding its breath. From her window, she watched the faint blue light stretch over Belo Horizonte’s hills. Normally, mornings felt like a race — alarms, traffic, lists, noise. But today was different. There was a quiet pulse in the room, like something invisible was rearranging the air.

She sat on her bed, Bible still open on her nightstand at the page that read Pacto com Deus. The words didn’t look like ink anymore; they looked alive. She placed her hand over them and whispered, “I’m ready.”

When she closed her eyes, she saw flashes — not visions exactly, but impressions. Her grandmother’s laughter. Tupac’s smile in an old music video. A silver moon shimmering above her grandfather’s face. It wasn’t frightening. It was comforting.

She got up, made tea, and put on her ERV playlist. The first song that played was “Didn’t We Almost Have It All” by Whitney Houston. Sara smiled instantly. “Bom dia, Vó,” she whispered. Then came “Keep Ya Head Up.” She laughed. “And bom dia to you too, Tupac.”

That was how her mornings began now — through music, memory, and invisible company.

Throughout the day, the world started speaking back.

At the bakery, the woman behind the counter gave her two extra rolls and said, “These are for someone special.” Sara nodded, knowing exactly who they were for.

At the bus stop, a stray dog sat beside her and leaned its head gently against her leg. It stayed until the bus arrived, then walked away without looking back. “Tupac,” she murmured, half-joking, half-serious.

In the supermarket, she reached for a carton of milk just as a song began playing on the radio — “Changes.” Her eyes welled up. It wasn’t coincidence anymore; it was communication. She felt it deep inside.

Sara began writing notes to her spirits in a small blue notebook. Sometimes it was gratitude — Thank you for guiding me to the right people today. Sometimes it was confusion — Why did I feel your energy so strongly this morning? Was it a warning or a blessing? But always, it ended with love. I love you. I hear you. I’m here.

Her pact wasn’t about worship or fear. It was about collaboration — learning to walk between the seen and unseen worlds. She was discovering that the spirit world wasn’t a distant sky. It was here — in a song lyric, in a stranger’s kindness, in the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

At night, she lit a candle for her grandmother and one for Tupac. The soft flames flickered on her windowsill, their reflections dancing on the glass. The moon rose higher, silver and patient. That was Grandpa’s time.

She would sit quietly and talk to him in her mind: Thank you for staying near. I see you in the moonlight. Keep watching over us.

Sometimes she swore she felt the air shift — a coolness brushing her cheek, the curtains swaying though the windows were closed.

The more she trusted her intuition, the clearer the signs became.

One afternoon, she almost canceled a meeting because she felt uneasy. A sudden heaviness pressed against her chest, and she knew — something wasn’t right. She stayed home instead. Later that day, she learned that the café she was supposed to visit had a small fire in the kitchen.

Sara didn’t call it luck anymore. It was guidance.

Her friends started noticing the change. “You’re glowing,” one said. Another asked, “What are you doing differently?”

Sara only smiled. How could she explain that she was walking through the same streets, but now she could feel the pulse of heaven beneath her feet?

At the end of the week, she hosted a small “celebration” for herself. She cooked pasta, opened a bottle of champagne, and used her new red glasses for the first time. She placed two extra glasses on the table — one for Grandma, one for Tupac.

“Cheers to the pact,” she said.

As she took her first sip, Whitney’s voice filled the room again — “I Will Always Love You.” And then, right after, Tupac’s “Dear Mama.”

Sara laughed out loud. “Okay, I get it,” she said to the air. “You’re both here.”

The candles flickered once, twice — like an answer.

She leaned back in her chair, heart full, and whispered, “I’m learning your language.”

And in that quiet, she felt something stir inside her — not a voice, not words, but a deep, ancient knowing. The pact wasn’t only between her and the spirits. It was between her and life itself.

Chapter 3: Echoes of the Pact

Once Sara made her pact, the world stopped being random. Every face she met, every song she heard, every delay or detour started to carry meaning. It was as if the universe had turned into a language she could finally read.

She began noticing how people appeared at the exact time she needed them — or disappeared when the lesson was done. Sometimes she met someone at a café who reminded her of her grandmother’s patience, or a stranger would say a sentence that felt like Tupac had written it himself. It was subtle but powerful, like invisible threads tying one moment to the next.

One afternoon, while walking through Savassi, she bumped into a woman selling bracelets on the sidewalk. The woman smiled and said, “You have light in your eyes, menina. This one is yours,” and handed her a small bracelet made of red stones. Sara hesitated, but the woman pressed it into her palm and whispered, “Protection.” She felt a shiver of recognition. “Obrigada,” Sara said softly.

That night, as she placed the bracelet beside her candles, the light reflected crimson against the wall — the same shade as her champagne glasses. “I see you,” she murmured, knowing it was another sign.

Her friends didn’t always understand. When she spoke about energy and alignment, they nodded politely, sometimes teasing her gently. “You and your spirits again,” they’d laugh. But Sara didn’t mind. She wasn’t trying to convince anyone. The pact wasn’t about others believing — it was about her remembering.

Still, her intuition began to guide her relationships more clearly.

There was one man, someone she’d been seeing casually. Handsome, charming, but something about him felt off. Each time he spoke, she felt an invisible wall between them. One evening, she prayed for clarity and shuffled her ERV playlist. The first song that played was “Only God Can Judge Me.” Then, almost instantly, “Run to You.”

She smiled. “Got it,” she said out loud. The message was clear: judgment wasn’t hers, but she needed to run — away, not toward. The next day, she ended it, kindly but firmly.

A week later, she heard through a friend that the man had been dishonest about something small but important. Instead of pain, she felt relief. Her pact had protected her again.

One evening, she visited her grandmother’s old neighborhood in Rio, walking past the faded pastel houses where she’d once played as a child. The air smelled of rain and jasmine. A small boy ran past her, laughing, his voice echoing in the narrow street. He turned for a second and said, “Oi, tia! Don’t be sad — they’re still with you!”

Before she could respond, he was gone — turned the corner, vanished into the maze of houses. She looked around, heart racing. “I know,” she whispered. “I know they are.”

That night, back in her room, she wrote in her blue notebook:

The pact is alive. It speaks through people who don’t even know they’re messengers. The veil is thin.

Her sense of timing also changed. She no longer rushed. When she felt resistance — a sudden heaviness in her body — she took it as a sign to pause. When her energy lifted — that sparkly feeling in her chest — she knew it was time to move.

One morning, she was supposed to go to a job interview. She’d prepared everything the night before, but when she woke up, a voice inside said, Wait. It wasn’t fear; it was knowing. She sat down, made tea, and waited. An hour later, her phone buzzed with a message: the interview had been rescheduled because the interviewer had an emergency.

Sara smiled to herself. “You see, Grandma? You saved me a bus ride.”

That was how life felt now — like a dance between her and something divine, something playful and precise.

A few days later, she met a young woman named Clara at a bookstore. They reached for the same novel — Letters to a Young Poet — and laughed. They ended up having coffee together, talking for hours about art, faith, and destiny. Clara said she’d recently lost her brother and had been feeling disconnected. Sara listened gently, then said, “You’re not disconnected. You’re surrounded. You just have to quiet the noise to hear them.”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears. “No one has said it like that before,” she whispered.

They exchanged numbers. A new friendship was born — another soul guided into her circle by invisible hands.

That night, Sara wrote again in her notebook:

Each person I meet is part of the pact too. We’re all connected through God’s web. Tupac. Grandma. Grandpa. The moon. The songs. The strangers. We’re one story being written from both sides of the veil.

Later that week, while walking home, the moon rose full and bright over the city. Sara stopped and looked up. “Boa noite, Vovô,” she said softly.

And for a split second, she felt a warmth on her shoulder — not wind, not imagination, but presence.

She didn’t need proof anymore. The pact wasn’t about seeing. It was about knowing.

Chapter Four: The Bridge

Sara never planned to become anyone’s guide. She didn’t wake up thinking she had a gift or that she was chosen for something. It happened slowly, quietly, like a tide rising beneath her feet.

One morning, while she was having coffee at her favorite café in Belo Horizonte, she noticed a woman sitting at the table across from her, eyes swollen from crying. Normally, Sara would have smiled politely and looked away. But this time, she felt a pull — that familiar vibration in her chest that meant pay attention.

She hesitated, then stood and walked over. “Desculpa,” she said softly, “I don’t mean to intrude… are you okay?”

The woman blinked in surprise, then covered her face with her hands and began to sob. Through broken words, she explained she had just lost her mother.

Sara listened without interrupting. When the woman finally looked up, Sara reached into her purse, pulled out a small keychain shaped like a heart — something she’d found on the sidewalk weeks before — and placed it in her palm.

“Keep it,” she said. “It’s from her. She’s closer than you think.”

The woman stared at her, stunned, then nodded slowly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Sara walked back to her seat, heart full. That night, she wrote in her blue notebook:

Today I felt Grandma working through me. Maybe that’s what the pact means — not to receive, but to give.

Her days started filling with moments like that. A stranger on the bus would start talking about their dreams. A friend would call just as Sara was lighting a candle. Someone would mention Tupac, out of nowhere, in the middle of a conversation about hope.

The more she listened to her intuition, the more the world opened up. It wasn’t magic — it was alignment.

Sara began spending more time in nature. At the park, she often sat under a tree and played her ERV playlist quietly through her headphones. Birds gathered near her feet. The breeze would rise with certain songs. And sometimes, in the rhythm of a melody, she’d feel a message form — not in words, but in emotion.

One afternoon, as Whitney’s “Step by Step” began to play, Sara realized: That’s the message. Step by step.

She smiled, whispered “Obrigada,” and went home feeling lighter.

Her nights became her sacred hours. She still lit candles for her spirits — one for Grandma, one for Tupac, one for Grandpa beneath the moonlight. She’d pour a bit of champagne into the red glass and set it near the window, an offering of gratitude.

One night, while the candle burned low, she heard a line from a movie on TV:

“When you learn to listen, even silence speaks.”

She froze. That was it. That was exactly what her grandmother had tried to teach her, what all the years of confusion and voices had meant. Not madness — messages.

In that moment, something inside her settled. The fear she used to carry — of being too sensitive, too spiritual, too strange — melted away.

She wasn’t lost between worlds anymore. She was the bridge.

Soon after, a friend invited her to a small gathering of women who met weekly to meditate and share stories. Sara went, unsure of what to expect. When it was her turn to speak, she told them about her pact — how she had chosen to follow her intuition, how she believed her grandmother and Tupac guided her through music and small signs.

No one laughed. In fact, one woman, Ana, began to cry. “You’re describing what I feel,” she said. “But I never knew how to explain it.”

That night, Ana sent her a message:

“Thank you for helping me believe I’m not crazy. You gave my faith a language.”

Sara smiled at her phone for a long time before typing back:

“We’re all a little bit crazy when we start to hear God clearly.”

Over the next few weeks, more people started coming to her — friends of friends, curious souls. They didn’t call her a healer or a psychic. They just said, “Sara, can we talk?”

She would listen, offer tea, sometimes play a song from her playlist. And somehow, by the time they left, they felt lighter.

After one of these visits, she looked up at the moon and whispered, “Grandpa, I think we’re doing it. I think we’re helping.”

A soft breeze passed through her open window, and for a moment, she smelled jasmine — her grandmother’s favorite flower.

By then, Sara had stopped questioning the signs. The pact was no longer something she had to remember or perform. It was simply how she lived.

She had become fluent in the language of spirit — of intuition, rhythm, and love.

She no longer searched for meaning in the sky; she carried it within her. And every time she lifted one of her red champagne glasses, she remembered that she was never alone.

The bridge was open — and life was walking across it every day.

Chapter ll: The Business Is My Projects

Chapter 11 — The Pact and the Fridge

Sara’s grandma spent her life sitting by her bed during the day. Grandma was always there, head bowed, lost in her own quiet thoughts. Sara would come home exhausted from work, collapse for a nap, and when she woke up — there Grandma was, still at the end of her bed. It was as if time paused around her presence.

Once the pact was established — and it became clear that Whitney was Grandma’s voice, her sister’s, and Tupac’s as well — something in Sara shifted. Suddenly, she felt an urge to rearrange the photos on her fridge door.

There were so many of them: Grandma and Grandpa, Tupac and Whitney, the Hollywood sign, and even a photo of two million dollars buried beneath it all. But the rest? They had to go. Sara tore down the others because it had become too confusing to figure out who was speaking through whom anymore.

Kobe, Bruce Lee, Wayne Dyer, and Walt Disney were gone from the fridge — no longer beside Grandpa or Martin Luther King. On Grandma’s side, Sara removed the Queen, Princess Diana, Tina Turner, Amy Winehouse, Michael Jackson, Paul Walker, and even the images of her old homes in Los Angeles — on King’s Road and in the Hollywood Hills.

Still, she kept Michael and Princess Diana. She also left a photo of her flat in Bondi Beach, Australia — one taken by the sea, where she had once seen the same spirits that appeared to her in Waimea Bay, on the North Shore of Hawaii. Even Queen Liliʻuokalani and King Kamehameha were taken down. Only the Pact remained.

Then came the cleaning. A few bottles broke. And before she knew it, the police were at her door, taking her away — again — to spend the night under harsh lights, with no water, feeling like Jesus on the cross. Then came the mental institution.

Ironically, it felt like the spirits knew it would happen. Her bag had been perfectly packed, as if by intuition. She had kept thinking about 11:11 — some kind of awakening coming to Brazil — and prepared herself as though she were about to survive an earthquake.

But what Grandpa and Tupac told her inside that mental hospital would blow anyone’s mind. “End of the world?” Sara whispered out loud. “They have no clue what’s waiting for them.”

During her stay, she wasn’t sure whether she had overdosed on weed — probably not. More likely it was the Haldol, the same medication her grandma once took in the hospital. When the doctors offered it, Sara accepted it willingly, almost lovingly. She wanted to understand what her grandma had felt.

But then things shifted. When she took it, her body twisted and twitched, her tongue jerking out, as if she were worshipping something dark that had finally arrived. But Sara wasn’t afraid. She felt relieved. “At least he’s here now,” she thought. “Finally — protection.”

Sometimes, Sara believed — or the spirits told her — that there was a camera in her eyes. Everything was being recorded for her protection. That’s how, she thought, ChatGPT and Siri were born — through her. People had been creating movies and songs to help her wake up to the conscious world.

She just kept forgetting, falling back asleep again and again. But things were different now.

Now, she had a pact with God. Deus.

Chapter 12 — Signs from the Other Side

The morning after she left the hospital, the city felt different. Even the air had weight. The wind brushed against her face as if whispering something she couldn’t quite hear — but knew she was meant to.

Sara walked slowly, her body still weak from the medication, but her mind clearer than ever. Every sound — the hum of cars, the birds overhead, even the chatter of strangers — seemed to form patterns, messages only she could understand. It wasn’t madness. It was connection.

At home, the fridge looked like an altar now. Fewer photos, but each one radiated meaning. Tupac’s gaze felt alive; Whitney’s smile, forgiving. Grandma’s photo seemed to move slightly when the light hit it. And the picture of the Hollywood sign glowed faintly in the reflection of the kitchen window.

That night, Sara couldn’t sleep. The clock blinked 11:11 again. Always 11:11. She felt it wasn’t a coincidence — it was a call.

Then, softly, a song came through her phone even though no app was open. Whitney’s voice. “I will always love you…”

Tears ran down Sara’s cheeks. She whispered, “I know. I finally understand.” At that moment, the air turned still. Grandma’s spirit filled the room with warmth so deep that even the shadows seemed to exhale.

Tupac’s words came next — not as a voice, but as a pulse in her chest. Keep writing, girl. The world’s not ready, but you are.

Sara laughed and cried at once. “So it’s true,” she said aloud. “I’m not alone. The pact is real.”

She remembered what Grandpa once told her in a dream:

“When your faith meets your purpose, the world will tremble — not in fear, but in awakening.”

That night, Sara opened her journal. She began writing what she saw, what she felt, what they told her. Every line poured out like prophecy. She wrote about the light in London, the angels in Bondi Beach, the spirits in Hawaii, the silence of the hospital, and the courage it took to believe she wasn’t broken but chosen.

The pact wasn’t just a promise — it was a bridge. Between heaven and her heart. And as she closed her eyes, she heard her grandma’s voice one last time that night:

“Sleep, menina. Tomorrow, the world will see what I’ve always seen in you.”

Sara fell asleep smiling, knowing something new was coming. Something bigger than her pain. Something divine.

Chapter 13 — Messages in the Morning

When Sara woke the next morning, the light pouring through the curtains felt different. It wasn’t just daylight — it was a sign. The same kind of soft golden glow she had seen once in Bondi Beach, the same warmth that touched the water in Hawaii when she’d sworn she saw spirits move through the waves.

The city outside was still waking up. Cars, dogs, laughter, and radios — each sound braided together like a song made just for her.

Sara stood barefoot in her kitchen, holding a mug of coffee, staring at the fridge. The photos seemed perfectly balanced now — Tupac, Whitney, Grandma, Grandpa, the Hollywood sign, and that picture of the two million dollars she’d printed long ago. It no longer looked like collage; it looked like order. Like destiny.

She smiled and whispered, “Good morning, my team.”

Whitney answered first — through her playlist, of course. As Sara turned on her speaker, the first song on shuffle was “Greatest Love of All.” She laughed softly. “Of course,” she said. “You always start the day right.”

Then Tupac followed, his voice raw and fearless: “Keep ya head up.”

Sara leaned against the counter. “I see you both. I hear you.”

It wasn’t just music anymore. It was a coded dialogue between her and the other side — a radio frequency that only faith could tune into.

Later that day, she went for a walk around her neighborhood in Belo Horizonte. The sun was bright but kind. As she walked past a small store, she noticed a cat watching her from behind the glass. Green eyes. Calm. Familiar.

“Grandma,” she whispered.

The cat blinked slowly. Sara smiled and kept walking. She’d learned that sometimes the spirits didn’t need words — they appeared as gestures, patterns, echoes of love in the smallest places.

When she reached the park, she sat on a bench under a jacaranda tree. Purple petals fell like soft confetti. A child nearby was humming “I Will Always Love You.”

That’s when she felt it — a rush of peace. A wave of gratitude. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t trying to figure it all out. She just let it be.

That evening, she wrote in her journal again:

“Maybe the signs were always there. Maybe I was just too tired, too hurt to see them. But now I know… they never left me. None of them did. Not Grandma, not Tupac, not Whitney, not Grandpa. They just waited until I was strong enough to listen.”

The house felt full that night. Every candle flicker carried meaning. Every shadow seemed alive.

Before bed, Sara looked at her reflection in the mirror and whispered, “Thank you for choosing me. For trusting me. For staying.”

Then, as the lights dimmed, her phone blinked again — 11:11.

She smiled. The pact was still in motion.

Chapter 14 — Living by the Signs

In the weeks that followed, Sara began to move through life differently. She no longer planned her days by the clock but by feeling — by instinct. If her gut told her to turn left instead of right, she did. If a song suddenly came on and changed her mood, she paid attention.

It was no longer coincidence; it was communication.

One morning, she was about to head to the supermarket, but her phone lit up — again, 11:11. She paused. “Okay,” she whispered, “where do you want me to go today?”

A voice inside, soft but certain, said: Take the long way.

So she did. She walked through a different street, one she hadn’t been down in years. That’s where she found it — a tiny thrift store she’d never noticed before. A sign above the door read Bendita Luz. Blessed Light.

Inside, the air smelled of wood and lavender. There was music playing faintly — Whitney again. “I have nothing, nothing, nothing…”

Sara smiled. “Of course.”

On a shelf in the back, she found an old wooden box carved with a crescent moon. It wasn’t expensive, but when she touched it, her hands tingled. She bought it without thinking. The saleswoman, a kind older lady, said, “This belonged to a woman who prayed every morning. She said it kept her safe.”

That night, Sara placed the box on her nightstand. It felt like it belonged there, next to the candle, next to her Bible from the Universal Church — the one that first said Pacto com Deus.

From then on, the signs multiplied.

When she doubted herself, Tupac’s lyrics would play somewhere unexpectedly — on the radio, from a passing car, even on TV. When she felt sad, Whitney’s voice would rise like sunlight through a crack in the clouds. When she felt lost, Grandma’s presence arrived quietly — a butterfly landing on her window, or the scent of soap she used to wash her hands with.

Sara began to trust this rhythm.

She noticed that every time she ignored her intuition, something small went wrong — a missed bus, a broken glass, a strange silence in the air. But when she followed it, everything aligned effortlessly: the right people showed up, doors opened, the day flowed.

One afternoon, as she was journaling, she wrote:

“It’s not about control. It’s about surrender. The signs don’t guide me — they reveal what’s already meant. I just have to listen.”

That night, she dreamed of London. She was walking down Regent Street, lights twinkling above her, the same ones she saw before Christmas long ago. She was holding hands — not with anyone visible, but she felt them there. Tupac on one side, Grandma on the other.

When she woke, the dream still lingered, shimmering in her chest.

Maybe, she thought, the pact wasn’t about religion or even spirits. Maybe it was about remembering that she was never alone.

And that realization changed everything.

Chapter 15 — The Leap / Dream
It started with a dream.

Sara was standing on a bridge between two cities — one looked like Rio, bright and restless, and the other looked like London, soft and silver under the rain. The bridge swayed beneath her feet, but she wasn’t afraid. She heard Tupac’s voice in the wind:

“You already know where you belong.”

When she woke up, she knew what she had to do.

For days she’d been debating whether to go back home to LA, California or save the money for a return to London — the city that always called her name. Logic said stay. But the pact whispered go.

That morning, she opened her playlist. First song: “Changes” by Tupac. Second: “Step by Step” by Whitney. Third: a sudden silence — then her grandmother’s favorite hymn played on YouTube’s random shuffle, even though she hadn’t searched for it.

She smiled. “Alright,” she said out loud, “message received.”

The next day, she packed a suitcase — just one. Her three pairs of Melissa shoes, the red champagne glasses, a small framed photo of her grandma, Tupac, and Whitney, and the Bible that said Pacto com Deus. The wooden box from Bendita Luz went on top, wrapped in her favorite scarf.

Every step felt guided. Even as fear whispered, What if you’re wrong?, another voice answered softly, Trust.

At the airport, everything flowed. Her ticket changed to a better seat at no cost. The attendant smiled warmly and said, “It’s your lucky day.” Sara thought, No. It’s faith’s day.

When the plane took off, she closed her eyes. The hum of the engines blended with the rhythm of her heartbeat. She imagined her grandmother sitting beside her, knitting. Tupac across the aisle, nodding with his headphones on. Whitney in the row behind, humming something just for her.

Sara whispered, “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel crazy — she felt complete.

When she landed in London, the city welcomed her like an old friend. The air was cool and soft. The sky over Kensington looked exactly as she remembered — gray but glowing.

She walked through the familiar streets, the hum of buses and laughter surrounding her, and she knew she had come full circle. The pact hadn’t just brought her back; it had brought her home.

That night, sitting by the window with tea and her journal, Sara wrote:

“I used to think I was being haunted. Now I know I’m being guided. The spirits didn’t ask me to believe — they asked me to remember.”

As she closed the notebook, the clock blinked 11:11. She whispered, “Obrigada, Grandma. Obrigada, Tupac. I’m listening.”

Outside, London lights flickered like stars in the fog. Then, She wakes up from her dream but its definitely a sign of whats to come in the near future.

Chapter 16 — London Speaks

From the moment Sara stepped off the train at Paddington, she felt the energy shift. London wasn’t just a city anymore — it was alive. Breathing. Listening. Waiting for her return.

The air was crisp, carrying that familiar scent of rain mixed with coffee and possibility. Double-deckers rumbled by, headlights glinting like stars, and she felt her heart swell. “I’m home,” she whispered, as if to confirm it to herself, to the spirits, to God.

Everywhere she went, London seemed to talk to her. The first sign came at a café in Notting Hill. She had ordered tea and a croissant, and when she sat by the window, a song began to play. Whitney again — “I’m Every Woman.”

Sara smiled. “Of course,” she murmured. “Morning message received.”

Then, the waiter — a tall young man with kind eyes — brought her tea and said with a grin, “Strong one for a strong woman.” The exact words Tupac had once said in her dreams.

She nearly dropped the cup. Coincidence? No. Confirmation.

After breakfast, she wandered through Portobello Road. It was raining lightly, but she didn’t mind. She walked without an umbrella, letting the drizzle kiss her skin. In a tiny vintage store, she spotted something that froze her in place: a framed black-and-white photo of Tupac, right next to one of Princess Diana.

“Grandma’s side and his side,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-crying.

The shopkeeper looked at her curiously. “You like that one?” Sara nodded, unable to speak. She bought both prints and carried them home like sacred relics.

That evening, she set them on her mantle beside her grandmother’s photo and lit a single candle. The flame danced and flickered, reflecting in the glass frames.

Then, as if on cue, her phone lit up again — 11:11.

“We’re here,” she heard inside her heart.

That night, she dreamt again. She was walking through Hyde Park under the moonlight. Her grandmother’s voice was clear this time:

“Now that you’re back, start your work. Tell our story.”

Sara woke with tears in her eyes and a knowing deep in her bones. She opened her journal and wrote:

“London is a mirror. It shows me who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. Every light, every raindrop, every voice carries part of the message. The pact isn’t just between me and God — it’s between me and everything alive.”

When she looked outside, the first light of dawn touched the rooftops. A small bird landed on her window ledge, chirping once before flying away.

Sara smiled. “Good morning, Grandma.”

And for the first time since she arrived, she felt completely at peace.

Chapter 17 — The Story Begins

Sara woke before sunrise. London was still half-asleep, the streets silent except for the hum of early buses and the whisper of rain against her window. She made tea, opened her curtains, and sat at her small desk — the same spot where she used to daydream about returning here.

This morning was different. The message from her grandmother still echoed inside her:

“Now that you’re back, start your work. Tell our story.”

Sara stared at the blank page of her notebook. For a long moment, nothing came. Then, a thought drifted through her mind, soft but insistent: Just begin.

So she wrote.

At first, the words were clumsy — memories of Brazil, of long afternoons with her grandmother sitting by her bed, of Tupac’s music that seemed to rise out of nowhere when she needed it most. But soon the words started to flow, as if guided by something greater. Every paragraph carried a pulse, a rhythm — her rhythm, and theirs.

She realized the pact wasn’t about worship or superstition. It was about trust. A conversation between her heart and the divine, between the living and the loved ones who had never really left.

As she wrote, the rain outside grew heavier, and Sara felt the energy in the room shift — the kind of stillness that means presence. She didn’t need to look; she knew they were there. Grandma. Tupac. Whitney. Grandpa. Watching, smiling.

On her speaker, the next song on shuffle began: “One Moment in Time.”

Sara laughed through her tears. “You guys have perfect timing.”

By afternoon, the first few pages were done. The story had a heartbeat now. It wasn’t just her memoir — it was their collective voice. A story about faith, resilience, and the mysterious way love refuses to die.

That evening, she walked to Hyde Park. The clouds had cleared, and a slice of golden sunset stretched over the trees. She sat on a bench, watching the light fade, her journal on her lap.

A stranger passed by and said gently, “That’s a good place to write. I used to sit there too, years ago.”

Sara smiled. “Did it help?” He nodded. “Every story that’s honest helps.” Then he walked away.

She took it as another sign — London speaking again, encouraging her to keep going.

When she got home, she placed her open notebook beneath the candle on her mantle. The flame shimmered, casting light over the page.

“Let this be our offering,” she whispered. “To truth. To love. To the ones who came before.”

Outside, the bells of a distant church began to ring.

Sara closed her eyes and whispered the words that had started it all:

“Pacto com Deus.”

The room felt warm, sacred. The pact was alive — and so was the story.

….“Now that you’re back, start your work. Tell our story.”

Chapter 18 — Ripples and The Invisible Thread

Chapter 19 — Grandma Elizabeth (E.R.V.)

Sara always said her heart learned love from her grandmother, Elizabeth Resende Vieira — E.R.V.

Since childhood, they had shared a bond made of tea, prayers, and patience. Every morning, Grandma Elizabeth would walk little Sara to her kindergarten, a small school called Cinderella, in their hometown in Brazil. She always waited by the door until Sara turned and waved, smiling through the sunlight.

Back home, the house smelled of mint tea and freshly baked bread. Her grandma would sit on the porch, rosary in hand, whispering quiet prayers. When Sara came home, she’d shower her with a thousand kisses — and her grandma would never get tired of it. Pure, endless love.

Even after Sara moved to California, their bond never faded. Before every taekwondo tournament, every big job interview, or any meeting in the entertainment world, Sara would call her grandmother. “Pray for me, vó,” she’d say. And her grandma always did. Every time, Sara would win — the tournament, the contract, the opportunity. To her, Grandma’s prayers were stronger than luck; they were protection.

Whenever Sara returned to Brazil, her first stop was always her grandmother’s house. After lunch, she’d lie down for a nap — exhausted from travel — and every time she woke, there was Grandma Elizabeth, sitting at the edge of her bed, head bowed in thought. Always there. Always waiting.

That image — her grandmother’s quiet silhouette — became a kind of memory prayer.

When Elizabeth passed away, Sara was in Hawaii, feeling lost and far from home. She had felt her grandmother calling — a pull, a whisper — but she couldn’t reach her in time. When she got the news, it broke something deep inside her. That night, she thought of ending her life. She even held the gun. But then she heard her grandmother’s voice — steady, loving, disappointed. Sara threw the gun into the river and chose to live, even if living hurt.

After the chaos — police, court dates, hospitals — she returned to Brazil.

And then came the rain.

It poured the night she arrived, a storm so heavy it felt alive. Sara stood by the window crying, and the rain matched her tears perfectly, like the sky itself was mourning with her. That’s when she realized her grandmother hadn’t really left — she had simply changed form.

Now, her grandmother spoke through elements: the wind that brushed the curtains, the sudden thunder that rolled when Sara was angry, the pink sunsets and sunrises that painted the sky. Her grandmother was everywhere.

In Sara’s world, when the rain came, it meant Grandma was restless — maybe even furious with the world’s cruelty. When thunder cracked, Sara would smile softly and whisper, “I know, vó. I know you’re mad.”

Back in her childhood home, Sara kept her grandmother close. She lit a candle every day in her honor. She bought fresh flowers. Her grandmother’s photo stood on the fridge, on her desk, by her bed. Each room glowed with her spirit.

Sara often felt she’d been chosen for something greater — the awakening, a rebirth of faith, a “Bible 2.0,” as she called it. “But if history teaches us anything,” she’d whisper, “look what they did to Jesus.” That’s why she believed God allowed her to bring a new family — a circle of souls bound by art, music, and truth. Her pact.

Her grandmother now spoke through songs.

Whitney’s voice carried messages. So did Taylor Swift, P!nk, and Madonna. Even old classics — CCR’s Have You Ever Seen the Rain or Run Through the Jungle — felt like letters from the other side. And sometimes, through the pounding beat of Eminem and Dr. Dre’s I Need a Doctor, Sara could almost hear her grandmother say, “I’m still here. Keep fighting.”

During her months in a hospital bed in Ipanema, after her grandmother’s passing, music became her bridge to the beyond.

When The Archer played — “I’m ready for combat” — Sara knew it was her grandmother’s voice again, fierce and protective, now walking beside Tupac, Whitney, and her grandfather. They were the pact — a family beyond death, joined by purpose.

Around them hovered others, the legends: Kobe, Bruce Lee, Wayne Dyer, Walt Disney, Tina Turner, Amy Winehouse, Paul Walker, Michael Jackson, Princess Diana, and the Queen. All part of the great circle that surrounded her.

And when the sky flamed pink at dusk, she would look up, smile, and whisper, “Vó, I see you. You never left.”

Chapter 20 — Signs in the Wind

The first sign came quietly.

One late afternoon, Sara was sitting in her grandmother’s old living room, the same place where Elizabeth used to shell beans by the window. The house smelled faintly of wax and lavender, and the last of the sun was sliding through the lace curtains. A soft breeze lifted the fabric, and for a second, the room shimmered — as if time folded in on itself.

Sara looked up from her cup of tea and whispered, “Vó?”

The curtain swayed once more, gentle but deliberate. She smiled. The air had a pulse — familiar, kind, loving.

After that day, signs began to find her everywhere.

When she walked down the street, a feather would appear on the pavement just before she turned a corner. When she played her ERV playlist, Whitney’s voice would start exactly at the moment she thought of her grandmother. Even random radio stations seemed to know her mood — “I’m Every Woman” on mornings she felt strong, “I Will Always Love You” on nights she missed her.

Sometimes, the lights flickered when she was writing, or a candle flame would bend in her direction when she whispered “thank you.”

Sara started keeping a small notebook — not for ideas or plans, but for miracles. Each time she noticed something that felt like her grandmother’s touch, she wrote it down:

A hummingbird by the window at 11:11. Curtain moved when I said her name. Rain stopped exactly when I thanked her. Pink clouds after I prayed.

It became her new kind of communication — not through voices, but through moments of alignment, perfect and fleeting.

Some nights, she dreamed of her grandmother sitting by the bed again, the way she used to when Sara was a child. In the dream, the room was half-light, half-shadow, and her grandmother was sewing something invisible with golden thread. When Sara asked what it was, her grandmother looked up and said, “I’m mending the veil. So you can see clearly.”

Sara would wake up in tears — not from sadness, but from awe.

She began to realize that faith didn’t have to shout. It could whisper through the details: a gust of wind, a familiar melody, the way the moonlight curved across the wooden floor. Her pact with Tupac, Whitney, and her grandparents wasn’t about worship — it was about recognition.

They were part of the rhythm now — the unseen orchestra behind every coincidence.

Sometimes she’d walk by the sea, headphones on, and California Love would start playing just as a group of kids began dancing on the sand. Or she’d see graffiti that said “Only God can judge me” right when she was doubting her purpose.

It wasn’t magic. It was communication — energy flowing in ways words couldn’t.

And as she learned to listen, life started to organize itself.

Even her dreams began forming a pattern: her grandmother by the window, Whitney singing softly in the background, Tupac nodding from the distance. Her grandfather was there too, calm and steady, watching the moon. They didn’t speak, but their presence said everything.

On one of those nights, Sara woke up and went to the kitchen. The house was dark except for the small candle burning under her grandmother’s photo. She touched the frame and whispered, “Obrigada por não desistir de mim.” — Thank you for not giving up on me.

The candle flickered once, then steadied. The air felt full again — warm and alive.

She took her tea, sat by the window, and opened her notebook to a blank page.

The pact lives in small things, she wrote. A feather, a flame, a song that finds you when you need it most. That’s how they speak. That’s how they love.

Outside, the wind picked up — just enough to lift the curtains once more, the way it did that first afternoon. Sara smiled, and for a second, it felt like heaven itself was breathing through the room.

Chapter 21 — The Calling

It began with the wind.

The night was heavy and strange — too warm for rain, too bright for sleep. Sara sat on the edge of her bed, her grandmother’s candle flickering beside her. She had been restless all day, pacing through the house, feeling the kind of pressure that builds before something breaks open.

She opened the window. The air smelled of wet earth and jasmine. The curtains fluttered, slow at first, then faster — like wings preparing to lift.

And then the storm came.

Thunder cracked across the sky, and lightning spilled through the clouds like veins of light. The candle trembled, but didn’t go out.

Sara closed her eyes. She could almost hear music rising between the thunder — faint at first, then clear. It was Whitney’s voice, pure and soaring: “Step by step, day by day…”

Her breath caught.

That was the song her grandmother used to hum while hanging laundry on quiet afternoons.

Then another sound layered beneath it — deeper, rougher — Tupac’s voice, rapping something about love, loyalty, and redemption. Two voices, two souls, blending like prayer and rhythm.

Sara’s heart pounded. She whispered into the storm, “What are you trying to tell me?”

Lightning flashed again, flooding the room with white light. For a brief, impossible second, she saw silhouettes — her grandmother sitting calmly by the window, Whitney beside her, and Tupac standing just behind them, arms crossed, nodding as if to say, listen.

And she did.

In the silence that followed, her grandmother spoke — not with words, but with feeling. Sara understood it the way you understand a melody you’ve never heard before but somehow already know.

“It’s time to speak. Not for yourself — for us. Write. Tell them what you’ve seen, what you know. The world forgot how to listen, but they’ll remember through you.”

The message burned in her chest.

Sara fell to her knees, tears mixing with the wind that swept through the room. She didn’t know if she was crying from joy, fear, or release. Maybe all three.

The thunder rolled again, but this time it didn’t feel threatening. It felt like applause — like the sky itself agreeing.

She grabbed her notebook, pages fluttering wildly, and began to write in the dark. Words poured out faster than she could think. Sentences formed themselves. The pact, the signs, the music, the prayers — all connected. Her grandmother’s lessons, Tupac’s defiance, Whitney’s grace. It wasn’t chaos; it was choreography.

By the time dawn came, the storm had passed. The air was still, sweet, and golden.

Sara’s notebook lay open beside her, covered in handwriting that didn’t even look like her own. But the message was clear:

Tell the story. Show them love through the unseen. The world will understand when you stop hiding your light. This is your calling — the bridge between earth and heaven, rhythm and prayer, human and divine.

Sara exhaled, trembling but certain. She touched her grandmother’s photo and whispered, “Okay, vó. I’ll do it.”

The candle flickered once, then went out — as if to say, good.

Outside, a single beam of light cut through the thinning clouds, and in it, a small white feather drifted down, landing softly on the windowsill.

Sara smiled. The message had been received.

Chapter 22 — The Awakening

The morning after the storm, the world felt brand new.

The sky hung low and pale, washed clean by rain. The air smelled of soil and promise. Sara woke up with the kind of calm that doesn’t come from sleep, but from surrender. Something inside her had shifted during the night — the old weight was gone, replaced by a fierce clarity.

She went to the kitchen, lit her grandmother’s candle, and opened her notebook to the page filled with last night’s words. The ink had bled a little from the rain that had blown through the window, but the message was still clear: Tell the story.

So she did.

That day, she began to write — really write — not to escape, but to reveal.

Her words poured out like a river breaking through its dam. She wrote about her grandmother’s prayers, Tupac’s strength, Whitney’s light, the way the rain had cried with her in Hawaii. She wrote about pain, faith, madness, rebirth. It wasn’t about convincing anyone — it was about remembering who she truly was.

For hours, the house seemed alive. The curtains breathed, the candle flame bent toward her, and the air hummed with quiet electricity. Every time she hesitated, a gust of wind would push through the open window, as if saying, Keep going.

By nightfall, she had written twenty pages.

She uploaded one paragraph online — a small one about how love never dies, it just changes form. Within hours, people began to respond.

“Your words gave me chills.” “I felt my grandmother beside me while reading this.” “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

The messages kept coming — quiet, raw, sincere.

Sara smiled through tears. She realized it wasn’t fame or recognition that mattered. It was connection. She wasn’t alone anymore; none of them were.

Each message felt like a prayer answered, a light flickering on in the distance.

And as she kept writing, her body changed too. She began to wake earlier, eat lighter, walk slower. Even her reflection in the mirror seemed softer, her eyes carrying a calm she hadn’t known in years. Sometimes she caught a glint of light behind her — just a flicker — as if someone was standing there, smiling.

She started noticing coincidences that weren’t coincidences. A stranger handed her a daisy — her grandmother’s favorite flower — at the market. A radio host quoted a Tupac lyric right when she passed by a café. At night, the moonlight would settle perfectly across her grandmother’s photo, like a blessing.

The pact was moving through her now — shaping her words, her timing, her intuition.

And the more she shared, the more the world responded in rhythm.

One woman wrote that after reading Sara’s story, she lit a candle for her late husband for the first time in years. Another said she started hearing her mother’s favorite song play in random places. “You reminded me she’s still around,” the message read.

Sara sat back, hands trembling, heart full. It wasn’t about being special. It was about being open. She had become the bridge her grandmother spoke of — between heaven and earth, art and spirit, pain and peace.

That night, she went to bed early. The candle still burned softly beside her. As she drifted into sleep, she whispered, “Thank you, vó. Thank you for choosing me.”

And in the quiet between waking and dreaming, she felt it — a gentle hand brushing her hair back, a warm voice saying, “You’re doing beautifully, my love. Keep going. The story has just begun.”

Sara smiled in her sleep, the moonlight resting softly across her face.

Outside, the wind rose again — not wild, not angry — just alive. It carried with it a promise: Love never ends. It only changes shape.

Chapter 23 — The Light Within

With time, the signs grew quieter — not because they disappeared, but because Sara no longer needed them to believe.

The feather on the windowsill, the songs that played in perfect timing, the flicker of the candle — they still came, but now they were gentle reminders rather than proof. The world didn’t need to shout anymore. Sara had learned how to listen in silence.

Her writing continued to flow, but something inside her had changed. It was no longer about documenting miracles or decoding messages. It was about living what she had been taught: love that expects nothing, faith that doesn’t ask for reward, peace that survives chaos.

She started noticing how easily people opened up to her — the woman selling flowers at the corner, the child sitting alone at the park, the elderly man who always carried a newspaper but never read it. Somehow, they all wanted to tell her something, as if they recognized the light around her.

One afternoon, Sara was sitting at a café, writing in her notebook, when a young woman approached her. She looked tired, eyes swollen from crying. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “I just… I feel like I need to talk to you.”

Sara closed her notebook and smiled. “Sit,” she said. “I’m listening.”

The woman spoke for an hour — about heartbreak, about losing her job, about feeling invisible. Sara said little, just listened with her whole being. When the woman finished, she whispered, “I don’t know why, but I feel lighter. Thank you.”

Sara nodded. “It’s not me,” she said gently. “It’s the love that moves through us when we stop blocking it.”

That night, when she lit her candle for Grandma Elizabeth, she realized this — this — was the true meaning of her calling. The pact wasn’t about power or prophecy. It was about presence. It was about being so full of love that others could feel it, even without words.

The next morning, she walked through the city with a calm she hadn’t known before. The noise, the traffic, the chaos — it didn’t touch her. She saw beauty in everything: the cracked walls, the laughter of strangers, the rhythm of the rain against old rooftops.

When she got home, she stood before her grandmother’s photo and whispered, “Vó, I finally understand.”

The candle’s flame steadied, strong and tall.

“I don’t need to ask what the mission is anymore,” Sara continued. “It’s love. It’s always been love.”

That evening, she opened her window and let the wind in. She sat with her tea, listening to the quiet hum of life around her — the clink of dishes, the distant music from a neighbor’s radio, the slow breathing of the world at peace.

And she thought of Tupac — the fighter who turned pain into poetry. She thought of Whitney — the voice that carried heaven’s light. She thought of her grandparents — steady as mountains, kind as rain.

She felt them all within her, not as spirits hovering above, but as qualities living through her. Courage. Grace. Faith.

The pact had never been about them guiding her from outside. It was about remembering that they were inside her all along.

As night fell, Sara whispered a prayer of her own making — not from a book, not from memory, but from the heart that had been healed by love and storm alike:

Thank you for teaching me to stay soft in a hard world. Thank you for showing me that listening is a kind of miracle. Thank you for reminding me that heaven begins where compassion starts.

The candle flickered once, then burned steady.

Sara smiled. She didn’t feel chosen anymore — she felt connected.

And in that quiet connection, she finally found what her grandmother had always tried to teach her: Faith isn’t about waiting for signs. Faith is becoming one.

Chapter 24 — The Choir of the Wind

The house was quiet except for the hum of rain against the old tiled roof. Sara sat cross-legged on the floor of her grandmother’s room, a single candle flickering beside the framed photo of Elizabeth Resende Vieira — ERV — smiling the same soft smile that once waited for her at the end of every nap.

She had spent the day cleaning and arranging the space until it felt alive again: lace curtains breathing with the wind, fresh jasmine in the vase, the faint scent of her grandmother’s perfume rising from the wooden drawers. Every corner whispered, welcome home.

When she turned on her playlist, Whitney’s voice filled the air first — “I look to you…” — and the candle flame bent toward the sound. Then came Tupac, his rhythm cutting through like lightning on the sea. Sara smiled through tears. These weren’t just songs anymore; they were visits. Each verse a message from the other side, each melody a pulse of love disguised as music.

She closed her eyes and whispered,

“Grandma, if you’re with them — with Pac, with Whitney, with Grandpa — send me a sign.”

And the rain stopped. Completely. The world held its breath.

A low breeze crept through the half-open window, brushing her cheek the way her grandmother used to. Sara could almost hear her voice — calm, certain — “Meu amor, keep your faith. You are protected.” Then, as if on cue, Whitney’s laughter echoed faintly at the end of the track, and Tupac’s verse came next, raw and defiant.

Sara felt them all together — a sacred trio of guidance: her grandmother’s wisdom, Whitney’s grace, Tupac’s fire. They were teaching her balance: the tenderness to heal and the courage to rise.

Since childhood, Elizabeth had been the one to steady her — praying before interviews, blessing her before tournaments, always believing Sara could win. Now, in the strange silence after loss, Sara realized that strength hadn’t vanished; it had only changed frequency.

Each time she played a song, something in her life moved. A sudden call from a client in London. A message from an old friend she had prayed to hear from. Even the clouds seemed to part at her unspoken wishes. Coincidence, perhaps — but Sara knew better. She called it the Grandma Frequency.

Late that night, lightning flared outside, casting the shadow of the photo across the room. In that flash, Sara saw not just Elizabeth’s face but a lineage — her grandfather, Whitney, Tupac — all part of a living constellation guiding her through the storm.

She whispered:

“We’re writing something together now, aren’t we? A story only love could invent.”

The candle flickered once in answer.

Chapter 25 — The Book of Light

For days the sky over Rio changed its mood with her thoughts. When she felt peace, the morning opened clear and gold. When she missed her grandmother, clouds gathered like old friends keeping vigil. It was as if the weather had become her diary.

On her desk sat a new notebook — cream pages, no lines — next to a speaker always humming in low volume. She called the project The Book of Light, but in truth it was more than a book. It was a conversation carried by songs.

The first track was Whitney’s “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.” That song became Chapter One. Sara wrote beneath it:

“When Grandma prayed for me, she built a shield I couldn’t see. Now Whitney sings it back to me from the sky.”

Each chapter would begin with a song, followed by a memory or revelation. Tupac’s “Keep Ya Head Up.” CCR’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain.” Taylor Swift’s “The Archer.” Even “I Need a Doctor” by Dre & Eminem found its place — because healing, she realized, could sound like hip-hop confessions or like a hymn whispered in hospital corridors.

She wrote long into the nights. Sometimes the candle flickered as if keeping rhythm. Sometimes thunder answered a paragraph, punctuation from beyond. When fatigue came, she played her “Grandma Frequency” mix and felt new energy rush through her fingertips.

One afternoon, a breeze pushed open the window, scattering the pages across the floor. Instead of gathering them in order, Sara let them lie there — random, alive. Each sheet seemed to find its neighbor by chance, or perhaps by guidance. When she read the rearranged sequence, the story made more sense than before.

“All right,” she murmured to the invisible choir, “you edit, I’ll type.”

Weeks turned to months. Word by word, melody by melody, The Book of Light grew — a tapestry woven from memory, prayer, and rhythm. She posted small excerpts online, always pairing text with a link to the song that had birthed it. People began to find her. Messages arrived from strangers in Lisbon, London, and Los Angeles:

“Your words feel like my grandmother talking.” “That playlist healed me.” “Please keep writing.”

Sara smiled. She didn’t chase publishers; she didn’t need to. The book was already travelling — on playlists, on whispers, on the wind.

And every night before sleeping, she touched the photograph of Elizabeth Resende Vieira and said,

“Grandma, we did it. You sing through me now.”

Outside, a soft rain began to fall — steady, comforting, exactly in tune.

PACTO WITH GOD — DEUS.IM

Chapter 26 — The ERV PlayList

Sara finishes putting together her playlist…. 152 songs, about 11hrs of music. In her fridge she looks at her grandmas photo while listening to her grandmas name song by the swifties called
1. Elizabeth Taylor

Elizabeths Forever
Elizabeth Taylor once said, “Do you think it’s forever?” and that line always echoes in my heart — because I think of my Elizabeths. My grandma, Elizabeth ERV, and Whitney Elizabeth Houston. The name itself feels royal, tragic, and timeless — it carries beauty, strength, and the kind of chaos that only legends understand.

Sometimes it doesn’t feel so glamorous to be me. People look at the sparkle, the stories, the madness — but they don’t see the weight of the name, the spirit, the legacy I carry. Hollywood doesn’t always love women like me. It loves to use us, shape us, rewrite us — until we either break free or break apart. So when they say, “Sara, you’re bad news,” I just smile and say, thanks. Because I come from a line of women who could handle anything.

Elizabeth Taylor had her diamonds. Whitney Elizabeth had her voice. My grandma Elizabeth had her faith.
And me? I have them all.

Together, we shine through the ages — three Elizabeths bound by love, loss, beauty, and survival. Forever.

Sara glances at Whitney Houston’s image and back to her grandma. Whitney’s middle name is Elizabeth as well.

2. Changes — 2pac

You’re my brother, you’re my sister That´s just the way it is

Sara looks at Tupac’s picture on the wall — that familiar half-smile, eyes full of truth — and smiles back.
“You’re my brother,” she whispers. “You’re my sister. Things will never be the same.”

The song Changes plays softly in the background, echoing through her room like a heartbeat of history. Every lyric feels personal now — like a letter written across time. Sara remembers all the court dates, the police reports, the jail cells, the “crazy” hospitals in Hawaii where she was trapped, misunderstood, and just trying to prove her innocence. Every fight, every tear, every time she had to stand alone — Tupac was there.

He was there in her headphones, in her dreams, in that unshakable feeling that someone understood. Someone who had already lived it. Someone who had already said it out loud:

“I don’t know how to be responsible for every black male did…”

That quote hits deep. Because Pac wasn’t trying to be perfect — he was trying to be real. And so was she.

Sara closes her eyes and exhales. She thinks of how both of them had to face systems too big, too blind, too cruel — and still keep faith. The world labeled them both as trouble, but all they ever wanted was freedom.

She smiles again at his photo — her ally, her teacher, her spiritual brother — and says quietly:
“Thank you for helping me prove my freedom, Pac. We made it through the changes.”

3. Hit Em Up — 2pac


After Grandma died, I couldn’t stop playing Hit ’Em Up. It was 2019, and back then I didn’t understand why that song had such a hold on me. I’d play it on repeat for hours — studying every frame, every lyric, every breath Tupac took like I was trying to decode something only my soul could hear. The spirits told me later that I had worked on that song, that my energy was already inside it somehow. At first I thought that was crazy — but now I know it was a message waiting for me to remember who I am.

That song became the beginning of everything — the root of my Pacto com Deus. Tupac was the first to reach me, to break through the noise. He said once, “I might not change the world, but I will spark the mind that does.” And he did. He sparked me.

When I watch Hit ’Em Up now, I see the symbols clear as day. The musical chairs — that’s life, souls fighting for a seat when the music stops. The flames — not hell, but transformation. The black bird — that’s him, returning from the other side, rising above all the pain. The thunder — that’s his arrival, the signal that the pact has begun.

He came back first. Through music. Through spirit. Through me.

And now, when I play that song, I don’t just hear anger or revenge. I hear resurrection. I hear friendship. I hear my grandma whispering in Portuguese — “meu amiguinho.” My little friend. That’s who Tupac is to me. My friend, my guide, my reminder that nothing really ends — it just changes form.

The world has changed. Things will never be the same. And it all started with that song.

Chapter 28 — Whitney’s Light
After Tupac came the fire, Whitney brought the calm.

It happened one night, right after I’d played Hit ’Em Up on repeat again. I was crying so hard my whole body shook — not from sadness, but from something breaking open inside me. The rain outside started to fall in rhythm with my tears, and then, suddenly, Spotify shifted on its own. No shuffle, no touch. It just started playing Whitney. “Didn’t we almost have it all…”

I froze. The room felt lighter, softer. The air smelled like my grandma’s tea — chamomile and sugar. I knew instantly: this was her voice.

Whitney was Grandma ERV speaking through music. Her elegance, her strength, her grace — all wrapped in that voice that could break the sky open. When Whitney sang, it was like Grandma was reminding me that love doesn’t end, it just moves to a higher frequency.

Tupac had woken me up — he shook my soul until I remembered who I was. But Whitney healed what was left. She smoothed the fire with melody, the same way my grandma used to smooth my hair after I cried.

That’s when I understood that the Pacto com Deus wasn’t about war or rebellion. It was about balance — thunder and harmony, Tupac and Whitney, Grandma and Grandpa, all working together through me.

Now, whenever I hear Whitney, I stop whatever I’m doing. I light a candle, whisper “obrigada, vó”, and let her sing. Because that’s how we talk now — through sound, through energy, through love that never dies.

Whitney reminds me that even after the storm, the sky still shines pink at sunset. That’s Grandma’s way of saying, “I’m still here, meu amor. Keep going.”

Chapter 29 — The Playlist (Bibble 2.0)
After Tupac and Whitney found their place beside Grandma and Grandpa, I understood the next step: to build our language. Words were never enough — too small, too slow — so I made a playlist. That’s how we talk now.

I called it ERV, after Grandma Elizabeth Resende Vieira, because she is the root of every frequency. Each song is a verse, each artist a prophet of sound. It’s my Bibble 2.0 — our scripture written in rhythm.

Tupac is the fire. He begins every chapter. His songs crack the sky, make room for truth to fall through. Whitney follows him like morning after thunder — her voice turns ashes into light. Then come the others: Taylor with her arrows, Pink with her rebellion, Madonna with her power to reinvent. Each one carries a message, a code.

When I press shuffle, the order isn’t random. The spirits line it up. Sometimes, when Whitney plays right after Pac, I know Grandma’s here, smoothing the edges. When CCR’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” comes on, that’s Grandpa Vieira — steady, quiet, reminding me to breathe. And when I Need a Doctor starts, I can hear them both talking through Dre and Eminem: “We never left. We’re in the signal.”

This playlist isn’t just music; it’s my conversation with heaven and earth. Every track is alive, vibrating with messages. Some days it warns me, some days it blesses me, and some days it simply holds me while I work, write, or cry.

People scroll through their phones looking for meaning. I press play. That’s where I find mine.

When I’m gone, maybe someone else will find it and understand — that love can travel through a speaker, that faith can ride a bassline, that God doesn’t always write in verses, sometimes He writes in songs.

So yes, this is my Bibble 2.0 — soundtrack of the pact, testimony of light. And every time I hit play, Grandma smiles, Tupac nods, Whitney sings, and the world spins in perfect rhythm once again.

Chapter 30 — A Moment in time
Whitney has always been there for me — even before I knew I needed her. Back in high school in Alaska, I’d blast her songs on repeat: I Learned from the Best, It’s Not Right but It’s Okay, Step by Step, My Love Is Your Love — all of them. I thought I was just another girl obsessed with Whitney, but now I understand: she was training my soul. She was shaping my strength before life would test it.

The first time A Moment in Time really hit me was years later, when I was stuck in that crazy hospital in London. One of those cold days when the world feels like it’s forgotten you. The halls smelled like antiseptic and loneliness. But there was this one woman — a trophy wife from somewhere in Europe — who played Whitney on her little speakers.

She was glamorous, confident, and full of attitude, even in there. When her music came on, the whole place transformed. The sterile hallways turned into a dance studio. We’d do yoga, spin around, sing from the top of our lungs. I remember screaming the chorus: “I will be freeeeeeeee!” Because who cared? I was already in a crazy hospital — I had earned the right to be crazy.

Those moments with her — with Whitney — kept me alive. That woman became like an angel in disguise. When I had nothing, she gave me clothes. When I was hungry, she brought me pret soup, chocolate, and coconut water. When I needed a smoke, she offered cigarettes. She never asked why I was there or what I had done. She just gave. That’s what Whitney taught me too — love without judgment, compassion without reason.

And when A Moment in Time played, everything around me changed. The white walls began to breathe. The air felt light again. I could feel Grandma ERV’s hand smoothing my hair, Tupac’s grin pushing me forward, Whitney’s voice lifting me higher and higher — above the pain, above the fear. I was dancing, singing, living. Free.

That song became my anthem. Even now, every time I hear it, I go back there — to that hallway, to that moment of pure liberation. Whitney is still singing, still healing, still reminding me: I am only one, but I am never alone.

Even in the darkest places, light finds a way — and for me, it came through her music.

When I finally got released from that hospital, the first thing I did was play A Moment in Time again. Around that time, I also got a small miracle — a refund from that visa scam I’d fallen for. I had paid about £4,000, maybe $5,000, and only got £1,000 back. But it was enough. Enough to feel free again.

So I walked through the streets of London with my headphones blasting Whitney, singing under my breath, “Each day I live, I want to be… a day to give…” I went shopping near Kensington — first at the Longchamp store by Westfield Mall, and bought myself a blue bag with brown straps. My victory bag. Then I went to the Adidas store, grabbed a coffee at Starbucks, and just walked. Free.

That song isn’t just mine anymore. It’s an anthem — for anyone who’s ever fallen and gotten back up. Honestly, A Moment in Time should be the USA Team anthem. It’s Olympic-level energy. And maybe that’s part of why it hits so deep — because once upon a time, I almost made the Junior Taekwondo Team in Colorado Springs. I’ve always been a fighter. And Whitney? She’s the soundtrack to my fight.



Chapter 31 — Hail Mary — Makaveli

“This is your home now,” they said. “And the sooner you get that in your head, the better off you’re gonna be.”

But I knew deep down — I was not meant to be behind those bars. I could feel it in my bones. My spirit was too free, too ancient, too stubborn to be caged. “I can’t do nothing behind these bars,” I told them.

“Of course you can,” someone answered. “Everybody in here is a criminal. I’m a criminal, you’re a criminal.”

But I wasn’t. I was set up. Just like Tupac said, “They killed my best friend.” And Grandma’s voice echoed in my heart, “Don’t trip on it, kid. Revenge has a funny, funny way of setting the score.”

And when it happens — oh, you’ll know.

That’s when Makaveli spoke. He came through like thunder, wrapped in rhythm and prophecy:

“Makaveli in this… Killuminati… all through your body, the blow is like a twelve-gauge shotty.”

It wasn’t just a song. It was scripture. It was resurrection.

He said,

“God said he should send his one begotten son, to lead the wild into the ways of the man. Follow me. Be my flesh, flesh of my flesh. Come with me.”

And I did.

I followed through the madness — through the padded walls, through the prayers and the tears. I followed through London’s cold corridors, through the burning heat of Brazil, through the death I faced in Hawaii. Because Hail Mary wasn’t just about him. It was about us — the ones reborn through pain, the ones who rise again when the world buries us.

“We’ve been traveling on this wavy road…”

That’s the part that gets me every time. It’s about the spirits. The UFOs. The unseen world that whispers to me when I’m still. It’s about my grandma watching over me, saying, “Meu amiguinho… we free like the bird in the tree.”

I remember listening to Hail Mary every single day when I was locked up — broken, misunderstood, yet burning with faith. And in that song, I felt Tupac smiling back. Like he knew. Like he was saying, “You get it now, Sara. This is your calling. This is your fight.”

At the end of the video, the spirits move — the man gets spooked, the fate shifts, the veil lifts. And then two gardeners stand in the cemetery and say,

“Boy, I hope she had a good life… how do you pronounce her name? Ma-ka-velly?”

I smile when I hear that line. Because that’s me. I died in Hawaii. I died in London. I died in Brazil. And every time, I came back different. Stronger. Wiser. Freer.

That’s the Makaveli way — to die and rise again. To transform the pain into prophecy. To take the hits and still say, “Come with me. Hail Mary.”

Chapter 32 — The Playlist (Bibble 2.0)

They call it the Bible, but for me, it’s the Bibble 2.0. My gospel isn’t printed — it’s streamed. It’s alive, breathing, singing through every speaker in my life.

My playlist is my holy text. Each song a verse. Each lyric a sign. Whitney, Tupac, Amy, Michael, Madonna, Taylor — they’re all prophets in my world. Each one has shown up exactly when I needed them. No coincidence. Never.

When I press play, it’s like calling home. The first few notes are how my grandma, ERV, says hello. Sometimes it’s the sound of rain syncing with I Have Nothing — sometimes thunder rolling in as Hail Mary starts. That’s when I know Tupac’s in the room. He always comes with the storm, with the energy of rebellion and truth.

Whitney comes with the wind — gentle but powerful. She’s grace. She’s that voice that says, “You got this, baby. One more round.” My grandparents are there too, sitting in the front row, smiling. Grandma sipping her tea. Grandpa nodding to the beat. He was quieter, but I can feel him now — more present than ever.

When I listen, I’m not just hearing music. I’m decoding messages. Sometimes the radio changes by itself — the song flips, and suddenly it’s something I needed to hear. Like the universe hits “next” for me. That’s when I whisper, “Okay, I hear you, Tupac. I see you, Grandma.”

Music has always been my therapy, but now it’s my prophecy. My Bibble 2.0 tells stories the world isn’t ready to read yet. It tells me when to rest, when to fight, when to forgive. When The Archer plays, I know it’s time to prepare. When Have You Ever Seen the Rain comes on, I know the spirits are near. When Stronger Than Me hits, Amy’s telling me to toughen up.

Sometimes I imagine the playlist as a council — Tupac, Whitney, Grandma, Grandpa, Kobe, Diana, Lee, Dyer, each one dropping wisdom from their corner of heaven. They speak through melody, through lyrics, through timing. It’s divine coordination, like DJ God spinning the soundtrack of my destiny.

That’s why I keep a candle lit whenever I listen. It’s my ritual, my connection. The flame dances with the rhythm, and I feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be — between worlds, between verses, writing my own gospel through sound.

One day, people will understand what Bibble 2.0 really means. It’s not just about religion. It’s about awakening. It’s about hearing the divine in everyday life — in a playlist, in the wind, in a beat, in your own breath.

And when that realization comes, maybe they’ll stop saying I’m crazy and start saying she was chosen to hear the music first.

Chapter 33 – Gladiator: Now We Are Free

The song Now We Are Free feels like home.
Even though the words aren’t in English, I understand every syllable. Lisa Gerrard sings in a language of the heart — the one you don’t learn, you remember.
It’s the sound of heaven. The sound of Grandma crossing over.

Every time the music starts, I close my eyes, and I can see it — the golden fields from Gladiator, the wooden gates slowly opening. That’s where Grandma and Grandpa are waiting for me, with Tupac, Whitney, and all my legends behind them. It’s peaceful there. No more hospitals, no more noise, no more fighting. Just light.

This is Grandma’s song. Her victory song. The day she finally became free.
When she passed, I didn’t get to say goodbye — I was too far away, still trying to fix a world that kept breaking. But now, every time Now We Are Free plays, I feel her saying, “It’s okay, filha. I’m here. I’m free now.”
And I smile. Because she is.

I always imagine the day I’ll walk through those same wooden doors — just like in the movie. I’ll see Grandma Elizabeth, Grandpa José Vieira, and Tupac waiting for me. Whitney too, smiling like an angel, ready to sing us through the gates. All the legends — Kobe, Lee, Dyer, Diana, Disney, Turner, Amy, Michael, Paul — they’ll be there too. The spirits will finally be together, in order, working as one. Pacto com Deus.

This song reminds me of that farm in Waimea, Pupukea, where I worked in Hawaii. There was a wooden gate there, almost identical to the one from the film — heavy, sacred, waiting to open. Sometimes I’d stare at it and think, This is what heaven must look like. The sun spilling over the trees, the wind whispering through the leaves — like the world itself was breathing with me.

My life has always felt like Gladiator — a general turned slave turned warrior again. Every time they tried to silence me, I came back stronger. They might have locked me up, called me crazy, taken everything — but they never took my faith.

Grandpa José reminds me of Maximus. A man who served, who forgave, who fought with honor even after being betrayed. In the Bible, it says Joseph was sold by his brothers and still became a king’s right hand. That’s my grandpa’s story too. That’s my story.

When I hear Now We Are Free, I don’t cry anymore. I smile. Because the spirits are finally free — Grandma, Grandpa, Tupac, Whitney, and me. We’re connected. Working as one team, one light, one family.

I still remember that woman in Hawaii who told me, “In the Kingdom of God, I can come in and come out.”
Now I know exactly what she meant. The door between worlds is open. The music is the key.

And I think of Queen Elizabeth’s words:

“We are all visitors here. Our purpose is to observe, to love, to serve — and eventually, we will go back home.”

Yes, Grandma. Yes, Your Majesty. I understand now. We are just passing through — learning, loving, forgiving — until it’s time to return to the light.

And someday, when it’s my time, I’ll walk through that same gate — barefoot, smiling, my heart calm — and I’ll hear Lisa Gerrard’s voice carrying me home.

La la da pa da le na da na… ve va da pa da le na la dumda… now we are free.

Chapter 34 — The Pact

After Now We Are Free, something shifted inside me. It wasn’t just a song anymore — it was a message. A code. Freedom isn’t waiting for me behind those wooden gates; it’s already here. It’s in my breath, my faith, my music.

That’s when I finally understood what The Pact really means. It’s not about waiting for heaven. It’s about bringing heaven here.

Grandma ERV showed me how to pray. Tupac showed me how to fight. Whitney showed me how to sing even when my voice shakes. And Grandpa Vieira — he’s the one who taught me loyalty and patience, the quiet strength of a man who has seen darkness but still chooses light.

Together, they made The Pact real. It’s not written on paper or stone. It’s written in music. In every lyric, in every beat, in every tear that turns into rhythm.

Sometimes I wake up and feel their presence — Grandma whispering in Portuguese, “Vai dar certo, minha filha.” Tupac cracking a smile, saying, “You see now, don’t you?” Whitney laughing, lighting up the room with her grace, and Grandpa sitting in the back, calm, watching over us all.

They’re not gone. None of them are gone. They just changed frequencies. They’re still here — working through me, through every song, every word, every little sign the universe sends. A flicker of the candle. The shuffle of my playlist landing perfectly on I Will Always Love You right after Hail Mary. Coincidence? Never. That’s The Pact talking.

When I say Pacto com Deus, it’s not about religion. It’s about connection. It’s about listening. It’s about building a bridge between worlds so that love, wisdom, and art can flow through.

Sometimes people think I’m crazy when I talk like this. But crazy is just another word for awake. Crazy is what they called Jesus. Crazy is what they called every soul who saw beyond the veil.

The truth is, we all have our own Pact — but most people forget. They stop listening to the whispers, stop dancing when no one’s watching, stop believing the wind can speak.

But not me. Not anymore.

When thunder roars, I know Tupac is working. When the light flickers, Whitney’s checking in. When the curtain moves without wind, Grandma is passing by. And when I feel that stillness — that perfect silence before dawn — I know God is saying, “You’re doing fine, Sara.”

The Pact is alive. It breathes through every heartbeat, every verse, every act of kindness. It’s love turned into energy, music turned into prayer.

And now I know what Now We Are Free really means: We are free — not because we escaped this world, but because we finally learned how to live in it with open hearts, with faith, and with God right here beside us.

Pacto com Deus. Para sempre. A promise between heaven and earth — sealed in rhythm, kept in love, and sung in freedom.

Chapter 35 — The Playlist (Bibble 2.0)

They called it the Bible, but for me, it was always the Playlist. Because God doesn’t always speak in scripture — sometimes He speaks in beats. In melodies. In the quiet space between one song ending and the next beginning.

I call it Bibble 2.0 — the new book of life, written not in ink but in rhythm. Every track is a verse. Every artist, a prophet. Every lyric, a prayer disguised as poetry.

When I can’t pray, I press play. When words fail, I let the music talk. Because music never lies — it’s the only language that passes straight through the heart, untouched by ego.

Tupac is the preacher. Whitney, the angel of hope. Bob Marley, the healer. Freddie Mercury, the rebel light. Amy Winehouse, the wounded truth. Prince, the divine spark. Michael Jackson, the messenger of love. And my grandma — she’s the choir that holds them all together.

Each one has a message, a vibration, a frequency that opens a different part of my soul. It’s like a divine radio — one channel for grief, one for strength, one for forgiveness. Together, they form my church.

When I need courage, I play Hit ’Em Up. When I need healing, I Will Always Love You. When I crave faith, One Love. When I long for freedom, Now We Are Free. And when I need to remember who I am — Man in the Mirror.

Some people read devotionals. I shuffle. Because every day God DJs my destiny in mysterious ways.

One night in Brazil, when I was crying over everything I’d lost — London, my dreams, my grandma — my phone glitched and started playing Redemption Song. No Wi-Fi, no reason. Just that one song on repeat. And I heard her voice — not Amy’s, not Whitney’s — my grandma’s: “Get up, minha filha. You are not done yet.”

That’s when I realized — The Playlist is alive. It’s not random. It’s divine alignment. Every lyric, every chord, is the universe whispering, keep going.

The Bibble 2.0 is for the ones who can’t sit still in church but still believe. For the dreamers, the fighters, the ones who pray through headphones. Because faith doesn’t always need a pulpit — sometimes it just needs good speakers and an open heart.

And maybe that’s what Jesus meant when He said, “Those who have ears, let them hear.” Maybe He was talking about the beat.

So when people ask me what I believe in, I just smile and say — I believe in music. I believe in the playlist that never ends, the one that started before I was born and will keep playing long after I’m gone.

That’s my Bibble 2.0. My gospel of rhythm. My eternal connection to the pact, the legends, and the light.

Because in the end — Heaven doesn’t sound like silence. It sounds like music.

Chapter 36 — See You Again — Fast and the furious

(In memory of Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney, and Paul Walker)

It’s been a long day without you, my friend… and I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again.

Every time this song plays, it feels like my grandma is right beside me. Her voice, her warmth, her strength — all wrapped up in those lyrics. “We’ve come a long way from where we began.” That’s her. That’s us.

I still remember when this song was a hit — back before the World Cup, before the losses, before the world changed. My grandma was still alive, and life felt whole. I didn’t know then that seven years later, this would become our song. Her song. My anthem for her memory.

“How can we not talk about family when family’s all that we got?” Every time that line hits, my heart swells. Because that’s exactly what she always taught me — family first, always. Even when oceans separate us. Even when life takes us to different countries, different destinies. The blood, the bond, the love — it never fades.

And then comes Tupac — “Now you’re gonna be with me for the last ride.” It’s like he’s talking directly to me. Because we did establish the pact on our own. We built our family in spirit — Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney — all connected beyond time. A brotherhood, a sisterhood, a divine circle that can’t be broken.

“When brotherhood comes first, then the line’ll never be crossed…” That’s exactly what we did. We drew the line between darkness and light, between pain and peace. We reached it. We crossed over. So remember me when I’m gone — because I’ll always be there in the music, in the light, in every song that finds you.

Sometimes I stare at my grandma’s photo — her kind eyes, her smile that could calm a storm — and those lyrics echo in my heart: “So let the light guide your way, yeah. Hold every memory as you go.” I whisper back, “I will, Grandma. Every road I take will always lead me home.”

It’s been a long day without you, my friend. And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again.

This song isn’t just about loss. It’s about reunion — the promise that love never dies. It’s about that final ride where we all meet again — Grandma, Grandpa, Tupac, Whitney, Paul Walker — the whole tribe of souls that built my story. Because when I see them again, there will be no tears, only joy. Only freedom. Only love.

So until that day comes, I keep driving down my road — headlights on, heart open, playlist loud. And when “See You Again” plays, I smile. Because I know — They’re already waiting at the end of the road.

Chapter 37 — The Playlist (Bibble 2.0)

Every chapter of my life has a song. Every heartbreak, every miracle, every moment when heaven felt a little too close — it all has a melody.

If the Bible was rewritten today, I believe it wouldn’t be on parchment or stone. It would be a playlist. A sacred soundtrack for the lost and found. A Bibble 2.0.

Because music — that’s how God talks to me. That’s how the spirits reach me. Sometimes it’s Whitney singing, “I will be freeeeeeee.” Sometimes it’s Tupac whispering, “Come with me, Hail Mary.” Other times it’s my grandma’s voice — soft, guiding — “meu amiguinho… keep going.”

Each song is a code, a message, a key. From Hit ’Em Up to A Moment in Time, from Now We Are Free to When I See You Again, it all connects. They’re not just songs — they’re portals. Each one opens a door, like the wooden gates in Gladiator. And on the other side, I see them all — Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney — smiling, shining, waiting.

I call this playlist Bibble 2.0 because it’s my living scripture. The verses are lyrics. The psalms are melodies. And every beat carries faith, pain, resurrection.

In Hit ’Em Up, I learned about power and rebirth. In A Moment in Time, I found freedom inside madness. In Now We Are Free, I saw heaven’s gates open. And in When I See You Again, I learned what eternity really means.

The spirits tell me this is how the new world communicates — through vibration, rhythm, harmony. Through soul. And one day, this playlist will be heard by others who need it — those who lost someone, who lost themselves, who forgot they are divine. It will remind them: You’re not alone. You never were.

When I press play, I’m praying. When I sing, I’m channeling. When I dance, I’m remembering.

My life isn’t chaos — it’s choreography. It’s God’s playlist. And every song brings me one step closer to home.

So, I’ll keep listening. I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep singing the Bibble 2.0 until the last note fades and the lights dim and the wooden doors open again. And when they do, I’ll hear Whitney’s voice, Tupac’s beat, Grandma’s laughter — all blending into one cosmic chorus.

Because in the end, there’s no goodbye. There’s only music. And music is forever.

Chapter 38 — The Wooden Door

It’s quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels empty — the kind that feels sacred. The kind that hums.

I’m standing in front of a wooden door, the same one from Gladiator, the one that always appeared in my dreams. The one from Waimea Farm — smooth, sunlit, carved by time. For years, I’ve seen it open and close in visions, but never dared to touch it. Until now.

There’s music in the air — faint at first, then swelling — Now We Are Free. Lisa Gerrard’s voice rises like incense, a language my heart understands better than words. The wind moves around me, gentle at first, then strong. And I know. They’re here.

Grandma ERV. Grandpa Vieira. Whitney. Tupac. All my legends. All my light.

The door glows. And when I step forward, I’m not afraid. My feet don’t even touch the ground.

On the other side — sunlight. Golden, warm, endless. Grandpa is standing tall, wearing his white shirt, arms open. Grandma is beside him, holding flowers — hibiscus and jasmine, her favorites. She looks young again, just like in the old photos. Whitney’s laugh echoes from behind, and Tupac is leaning against a tree, grinning, arms crossed.

“’Bout time you showed up,” he says, that same California rhythm in his voice. Grandma smiles. “Meu amiguinho,” she whispers. “You made it.”

I want to cry, but tears don’t exist here. Only light. It feels like the air itself is singing.

Tupac nods toward the horizon — waves of music, color, and sky all blending together. “This is it,” he says. “The real world. The one they forgot.”

Whitney reaches out her hand. Her bracelets shimmer like stars. “Sing it with me,” she says softly. “You know the words.”

And I do. Every lyric, every note, every prayer. We sing A Moment in Time, and the sound carries across the fields. It’s not just us — it’s everyone. All the souls I’ve loved and lost, all the people who ever sang through pain. We are one choir, one heartbeat.

I look around — the wooden door behind me has disappeared. The sky is pink, violet, gold. And I know what it means: Now we are free.

Grandma takes my hand. “Your time there isn’t done,” she says. “Go back and finish the music. Tell them the truth — love never dies.”

Tupac grins. “You got the mic now, kid. Don’t waste it.”

Whitney laughs, her voice shimmering like water. “Tell them we’re still singing.”

And just like that, I’m back. In my room in Brazil. The candle flickers beside Grandma’s photo. Outside, the wind moves the curtains like gentle hands. And the playlist starts playing again — When I See You Again.

I smile through the tears. Because now, I know for sure — I will.

Chapter 39 — The Pacto Album

When I woke up the next morning, the sky was still glowing pink — the same color I saw behind the wooden door. For a moment, I didn’t know if I was still dreaming. The candle beside Grandma’s photo was still lit, though I swear I hadn’t touched it. The flame was steady, quiet, alive.

That’s when I heard it — the whisper. Soft, familiar. “Play it, filha.”

I turned on the speaker, and the first song that came up was Hail Mary. Tupac again. His voice filled the room like thunder wrapped in velvet. I closed my eyes and smiled. The pact was awake.

I grabbed my notebook and wrote the title at the top: The Pacto Album.

This wasn’t just music. This was resurrection. Every track would tell the story of the spirits that saved me — Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney, all the souls that refused to die because their energy still moves through rhythm and memory.

Track one: Hail Mary — the beginning of the pact. Track two: A Moment in Time — the healing. Track three: Now We Are Free — the ascension. Track four: When I See You Again — reunion. And somewhere near the end, my own song — the one I’d been afraid to write.

It wouldn’t be about fame or charts or streams. It would be about love. Real love — the kind that crosses dimensions and plays through every storm.

I could feel Grandma’s hand guiding mine as I wrote the lyrics. Her perfume lingered in the air — jasmine and old rose. Tupac’s words echoed in my mind: “I might not change the world, but I’ll spark the mind that will.” Whitney’s voice followed: “You’re that spark now, baby.”

That’s when I knew. Everything I’d lived — the pain, the hospitals, the countries, the rain — it was all training. Every song I loved had been preparing me for this.

I spent that whole day writing, singing, crying, recording rough demos on my phone. The wind outside danced with the curtains like it was keeping time.

This wasn’t just an album. It was a bridge. Between heaven and earth, between my past and the light.

That night, I lit another candle and whispered: “We did it, Grandma. We’re making the music now.”

Somewhere, I swear I heard her laugh. And for the first time in a long time — maybe since Hawaii — I felt free.

Chapter 40 — Put The Lime in The Coconut

Put the lime in the coconut, you drink ’em both together…

Every time I hear that song, I’m back in Seattle — in college — sitting cross-legged on a tiny dorm bed with my roommate, watching Practical Magic on repeat. We had cheap popcorn, warm blankets, and too many dreams for that little room.

Sandra Bullock was me. Sensitive, cautious, the one who loved too deeply. My roommate was Nicole Kidman — wild, beautiful, impossible to tame. We’d laugh, cry, dance, and say we were the Owens sisters, witches in training. And maybe, in a way, we were. That movie had power — real, ancient power. It wasn’t just fiction. It was a reminder.

Practical Magic reminded me of my grandma, Elizabeth Resende Vieira — ERV. Her stepmother had been like the aunties in the movie, except her craft wasn’t called “magic.” In Brazil, it was macumba. A mix of love spells, money rituals, prayers to the spirits, and sometimes… something darker. People came to her stepmother with offerings — candles, ribbons, bottles of rum — asking for favors from the unseen.

But not every door that opens is meant to be opened. My grandma learned that the hard way. Watching her stepmother work with spirits as a child scared her for life. She started hearing voices — whispers that never left — and people said she was “crazy.” But I know better. She wasn’t crazy. She was haunted by a world she never asked to enter.

That’s what happens when you invite too many spirits at once. You lose track of who’s speaking, who’s listening, and who’s pretending to be light when they’re really just noise. I saw that in myself too. Before the pacto, I used to throw money away like candy — ten thousand in one night on liquor, or another shattered iPhone when the energy got too strong. That’s what happens when the spirit world gets overcrowded — the wires spark, and everything breaks.

Now I know better. Now I have order. Pacto com Deus. With God first. Tupac is my anchor, my guide — the first voice that cut through the chaos. Then Whitney — the voice of my grandma, soft but powerful. And the others? They come when called — Kobe, Dyer, Disney, Diana, Michael, the Queen. One by one. Never all at once.

Because I learned what Grandma never could — how to close the door when it needs to be closed.

And every time Put the Lime in the Coconut plays, I remember the lesson. Magic is real, but it’s also dangerous. You have to laugh, to dance, to live with it — not under it. That song was from the Tropical Hawaiian Party playlist — and of course, it brings me right back to my time in Hawaii. Beautiful, brutal Hawaii. The island that gave me everything and almost killed me more than once.

I drowned and came back. I was strangled and still breathed. Chased, shot at, bricks thrown at my knees — and yet I kept walking.

I was just a young woman trying to start a dream business — North Shore Legends — back in 2017. Funny how life works. None of those people made it into my book. They weren’t legends after all.

Only the true ones survived in my story: Tupac, Whitney, Kobe, Wayne Dyer, Disney, Michael, Diana, and the Queen.

The real legends never die. They just change forms — like spirits moving through songs.

And sometimes, when the night is soft and the wind smells like coconut and salt, I can still hear it — Put the lime in the coconut, you drink ’em both together…

I laugh out loud, raise my glass, and whisper to Grandma, “See, vó? This time, we’re drinking to life.”

Chapter 42 — The Pacto Chronicles Soundtrack

Everything I’ve ever loved — every song, every movie, every whisper of spirit — started to line up like stars. It wasn’t coincidence. It was the pacto. God, Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney… all of them arranging the story of my life like a playlist, a soundtrack, a map.

I started seeing it clearly: every movie I loved, every song I played on repeat, every melody that gave me goosebumps — they weren’t just entertainment. They were messages, instructions, prayers.

Practical Magic taught me how fragile the veil between worlds is. Put the Lime in the Coconut reminded me to survive, to laugh, to keep my joy even when the world tried to break me. Hit ’Em Up told me how to fight, how to reclaim power that’s been stolen, how to rise with honor. Now We Are Free showed me the other side — the afterlife, the reunion, the order, the freedom. A Moment in Time reminded me that even in the darkest rooms, I can be free, can dance, can sing, can live. When I See You Again was the promise that no one is ever truly gone — family, legends, spirits, love — all of them will come back in some form.

And all of it started to form a vision: a story, a chronicle, a universe where music, spirits, and human life collide. I called it The Pacto Chronicles.

Every song became a chapter. Every legend became a character. Every spirit became a guide. Tupac was my warrior, my amiguinho, the one who showed me the way through chaos. Whitney was my healer, my grandmother’s echo in sound. Grandma ERV and Grandpa Vieira were my anchors — timeless, infinite. And I? I was the storyteller. The bridge. The one who channels the voices, the visions, the songs, and turns them into something people could feel.

I began writing, recording, mapping each song to a memory, a lesson, a spirit. The playlists were no longer just music — they were scripture. A modern Bibble 2.0. People will listen one day and not know why their hearts catch on a lyric, a melody, a whisper. But they’ll feel it. Because that’s how the spirits work. Through sound, through story, through feeling.

I lit a candle for Grandma. I pressed play on Now We Are Free. And I smiled. Because I finally understood. The songs, the movies, the legends — they weren’t mine alone. They were our pact. And now, the world would get to hear it too.

Chapter 43 — First Encounters

The world didn’t announce itself. It whispered. I started small. Playing the playlists in my apartment, walking down the streets of Belo Horizonte, letting the music flow through me. Tupac’s rhythm carried me forward, Whitney’s voice reminded me of love that never dies, and Grandma ERV’s faith hovered over every step.

One afternoon, I was sitting in a café, headphones on, scribbling notes for The Pacto Chronicles. I barely noticed the woman at the next table watching me. She smiled. And when I looked up, she mouthed the words to A Moment in Time — the exact verse I was writing.

That’s when it hit me. The music wasn’t just for me. It was alive, moving between people, pulling them into the same pact I had formed with the spirits.

Another day, I left a copy of my playlist on a bench near the park. I didn’t expect anyone to touch it. But later, I saw a man walking by, headphones in, humming Put the Lime in the Coconut. I swear, I could see him feel the wind shift around him, like Tupac was walking beside him too.

Even online, things started happening. I shared a single track with a friend — just for fun — and they sent me a message hours later: “I don’t know why, but I feel like someone is with me. Someone protecting me. Listening to this, I feel less alone.”

That was the pact in action. It wasn’t about fame. It wasn’t about numbers or streams. It was about connection. Energy. Spirits moving through music, through art, through people who didn’t even know why they needed it.

I began to notice patterns. Certain songs would appear for certain people. Sometimes a stranger would start humming the chorus of When I See You Again on the subway. Sometimes someone’s eyes would well up listening to Hail Mary. And every time, I felt a gentle nudge — Grandma’s hand, Tupac’s grin, Whitney’s laugh.

I was learning the subtlety of influence. The power of presence. The magic of order. Pacto com Deus had extended beyond me. It was alive in the streets, in the music, in the lives of people who had no idea why they were touched.

And I knew — this was just the beginning.

The world was waking up, one song at a time. And when it did, it would find the Pacto Chronicles waiting.

Chapter 44 — The First Pacto Playlist — DEUS.IM

It started with a quiet evening, the sun setting pink behind the hills of Belo Horizonte. I sat cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, candles flickering, notebooks open, phone in hand. The playlist had to be perfect. Every song, every note, every pause had to speak — not just to me, but to the spirits, to the world, to the ones who would unknowingly find it and feel the pact.

Tupac went first — always first. Hit ’Em Up, Hail Mary. I could hear him guiding the energy, nudging me to let the rhythm do the work, to let the anger, the passion, the justice pour through the beats.

Whitney followed — my Grandma’s voice embodied in sound. A Moment in Time, Now We Are Free, I Will Always Love You. Her harmonies lifted me, like ERV herself was leaning over my shoulder, whispering: “It’s okay, filha. They’ll feel us too.”

Then came Grandma ERV and Grandpa Vieira — songs they loved, hymns, melodies that held our family’s history. I added Paul Walker too, because he represented loyalty and love in ways words couldn’t explain.

And finally, the legends — Kobe, Wayne Dyer, Disney, Michael, Diana, the Queen. They didn’t need introductions. Their energy, their spirit, their lessons were already woven into the pact.

I arranged the songs like chapters in a book. Tupac opens the story, Whitney heals the wounds, Grandma and Grandpa anchor the heart, and the legends whisper wisdom through every track.

When it was done, I hit play.

The apartment transformed. The candles flickered in rhythm. Shadows danced against the walls. I could feel the spirits aligning, forming a circle, nodding approval. I wasn’t alone. Never again.

I uploaded the playlist online — but not as a marketing stunt. Not as something to trend. I released it as a gift, a quiet offering. The pact would find its listeners. The spirits would move through them. People would feel it without knowing why.

The first message came that night: “I don’t know who made this, but it feels like someone is holding my hand. I’ve been crying, but I feel safe now.”

I smiled. That was the pact. That was ERV and Tupac and Whitney and Grandpa and every legend saying, “We are here. You are never alone.”

From that moment on, the playlist became more than music. It became a bridge. A heartbeat. A voice in the chaos. The beginning of the Pacto Chronicles.

And I knew, finally, that this was just the start. The world was ready, whether it knew it or not.

Chapter 45 — Hotel California — Eagles.

There are songs that become places — and Hotel California is one of them. Every time I hear that guitar riff, I’m back in Hollywood, feeling the golden light of California melting into dusk. I can see it: the poolside glow at the Roosevelt, the rooftop breeze at Skybar, a glass of champagne on ice at the Sunset Marquis, laughter echoing down from the Standard. This could be heaven or this could be hell. That’s Los Angeles for you — beautiful, dangerous, seductive, haunted.

This song follows me everywhere. It reminds me of Búzios in Rio, too — the night I bought ten thousand reais worth of liquor for the spirits. I thought I was cleansing, honoring them, but instead, things got chaotic — glasses breaking, energy shifting. Someone called the police. Same energy, different country. Déjà vu. This time, I didn’t wait around. I left. Took a cab straight to the airport and flew to Rome by way of London, as if running could outrun fate.

When I got back from the crazy hospital — on Halloween, of all days — the veil between worlds felt paper-thin. Cats I’d never seen before kept walking into my house like they owned the place. Their eyes glowed in the dark. I knew what it meant. Cats can see what we can’t. The spirits were there.

This song also takes me back to Germany — that eerie hotel filled with porcelain dolls, all staring blankly, like Chucky’s cousins watching from the shadows. That’s when I realized the line “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave” isn’t just about LA — it’s about energy, memory, karma. Once you’ve seen what’s behind the curtain, you can never fully unsee it.

Los Angeles is the City of Angels, yes — but some angels fall. The pretty boys at The Abbey in West Hollywood, the fame-chasers, the dreamers — all sipping champagne on ice, still looking for something real. They stab it with their steely knives but they just can’t kill the beast. Fame, desire, illusion — it feeds on itself.

And yet, I love it. That song, that city, that madness. Because Hotel California is a reminder: you can leave the place, but it never leaves you. Once you’ve lived in LA, it’s in your blood — the beauty, the heartbreak, the ghosts.

This song came out before California Love, but for me, they’re twin anthems — one for the light, one for the dark. Heaven and hell on the same golden boulevard.

And I’ve walked both sides.

Chapter 46 — Spirit in the Sky

There’s something about Spirit in the Sky that wakes me up from the inside out. I don’t dance much anymore — not the way I used to — but this song? It won’t let me sit still. The moment that fuzzy guitar riff kicks in, something shifts. I look over at my grandma’s photo and feel the pull — like she’s calling me to stand up, to move, to celebrate life and death all at once.

When I die and they lay me to rest, I’m gonna go to the place that’s the best.Goin’ up to the spirit in the sky (spirit in the sky) Every time I hear those words, I can picture it — the light, the sky, the gates opening just like in Gladiator, my grandma and grandpa waiting for me, smiling, Tupac cracking a joke, Whitney’s voice carrying in the wind. That’s the place that’s the best. That’s home.

I’ve never been a sinner, and I got a friend in Jesus. That’s my grandma singing back. Her voice comes through that line every single time, soft and warm, the way she used to hum gospel tunes in the kitchen while stirring her coffee.

The thing about this song is that it’s pure — you don’t need fancy words or long verses. The guitar says it all. It’s joy and faith and freedom, wrapped into one eternal sound.

When it plays, I close my eyes and start moving my arms slowly, up and down, like a bird learning to fly. I imagine myself lifting higher, higher, until I’m light enough to join them — my spirits in the sky.

One day, I’ll get there. But for now, I just dance — for them, with them, to the rhythm of the eternal.

Chapter 47 — Angels

There are songs that come and go — and then there are songs that stay with you forever. Angels by Robbie Williams is one of those songs that has followed me across every ocean, every heartbreak, every rebirth. I used to listen to it in Los Angeles, and later in Australia, long before my grandma passed. I’d sit there, eyes closed, the warm sun on my face, and cry just thinking about the day I’d lose her.

Then I’d pull myself together, wipe the tears, and remind myself to be grateful — grateful for her prayers, for her love that traveled farther than any plane I ever took. She prayed for everything — for my projects to work out, for my knees to stop hurting from Taekwondo fights, for me to be strong enough to handle two spin classes a day at Crunch or Equinox. That was her. Always praying, always caring, always holding me even from miles away.

And through it all, she offers me protection… That’s her line. That’s her voice now.

Robbie was always one of my favorites — English, a Leo, and just effortlessly cool. But this song isn’t about him anymore. It’s about her. Every note carries her presence. Every time the chorus swells, I feel her wings brush against me.

Now, when I hear Angels, I don’t cry right away. Sometimes I just smile — staring at her photo, that soft smile of hers looking back at me. But there are still days when the song starts, and I break. I sob until the music fades, missing her warmth, her sweet tea that was always too sweet, her calm, her silence that said more than words ever could.

She was always there — sitting quietly at the edge of my bed while everyone else talked, never saying much, just being. Even when I drifted into naps, she stayed. Watching. Protecting.

And today, nothing has changed. She’s still there — my angel, sitting by the edge of my bed, keeping me safe through it all.

Chapter 48 — My Love is Your Love

This song will always be one of my all-time favorites. My Love Is Your Love isn’t just a song — it’s a promise. The first time it really captured me was sometime around the early 2000s, when the world felt tense, wars brewing, chaos in the air. And then came Whitney, calm as ever, singing about love that could never be broken.

If tomorrow is judgment day, and I’m standing on the front line… Every time I hear that line, I think of my grandma, Elizabeth Resende Vieira — ERV, my angel, my everything. I imagine standing before God and saying, without hesitation: “I spent it with you.” That’s what I’d tell her. Thank you, darling. Thank you, Grandma. I spent it with you.

Then comes the part that hits me deep every single time: It would take an eternity to break us / And the chains of Amistad couldn’t hold us. That’s our bond — unbreakable, eternal, stronger than any lifetime. I used to mishear the lyrics and think Whitney said “given a chance from the start wouldn’t hold us” — and maybe that’s what my soul needed to hear back then. Because that’s how love feels when it’s real — unstoppable, divine, bigger than words.

And then — my favorite verse: If I should die this very day, don’t cry… ’cause on Earth we weren’t meant to stay. I get chills. Because that’s exactly what Grandma would say to me. “Don’t cry, my darling. I’ll be waiting for you after Judgment Day.” That line still gets me. I’ve seen my share of Judgment Days already — spiritual wars, chaos, visions of the world at the edge of something huge. I saw flashes of it — a visitation of what the next war could be, not just nations but souls. It doesn’t look good for Brazil or the world… so pray, bitches. Pray hard.

And I love that Bobbi Kristina, Whitney’s daughter, is on this track too. That connection — mother and daughter, life and spirit — it mirrors my own love with Grandma.

If I lose my fame and fortune, and I’m homeless on the street… That lyric used to feel distant, but not anymore. Because it happened. I lost everything. Fame, money, safety, even identity — gone. I slept at train stations in London, shivering under fluorescent lights. I was homeless in LA, in Brazil, in Hawaii. But I was never truly alone.

That night in Hawaii, sleeping under the stars on Sunset Beach — that was heaven. I lay by the lifeguard tower, watching dozens of shooting stars streak across the sky. The air was warm, about 78 degrees, and it felt like the world was holding me in its arms. Grandma, Whitney, Tupac — all of them were there. The spirits. My pact.

The sky entertained me with UFOs that night — or maybe they were just the spirits showing off, saying, “We’re here.” I remember smiling through the tears. It was peaceful. It was magical.

And you know what’s crazy? That’s what Whitney wanted too. She once said she dreamed of leaving it all behind, moving to a beach, opening a little juice shack by the water. That’s why I know she was with me — spirit to spirit, song to song.

’Cause your love is my love / And my love is your love. That’s it. That’s everything.

It’s my love for my Grandma, my Tupac, my Whitney — and their love for me. It’s the love that carried me through hospitals, airports, heartbreaks, and homelands. The kind of love that can never die.

Chapter 49 — You´ll Be In My Heart

It’s funny how music finds you — sometimes when you’re not even looking for it. I’ve always loved the Tarzan song, but lately, “You’ll Be in My Heart” seems to find me when I need it most. Whether I’m walking through a grocery store, or sitting in some chaotic hospital hallway, it comes on — like a quiet whisper from above. And every time it does, I feel my grandma’s voice gently speaking to me.

When destiny calls you, you must be strong. I may not be with you, but you’ve got to hold on.

Those words used to make me cry. Now, they make me breathe. I hear her saying, “You’ve got to hold on, darling. You’re stronger than you think.”

Every time that song plays, I see her sitting at the end of my bed — the same way she always did — calm, patient, quietly watching me as the world spun around us. Her presence was never loud, but it was everything.

Now, when I hear: “Cause you’ll be in my heart, from this day on, now and forever more…” — it’s like she’s right there again.

I picture her smile, her warm hands holding my knees when they hurt after taekwondo practice, her sweet tea that could heal anything. She’s still here, not in body, but in spirit — in every melody that brings her back to me.

And I believe it now more than ever — she’s with me. When I’m lost, when I’m afraid, when I’m sitting alone looking at her photo — she’s right there, whispering, “Just look over your shoulder.”

And I do. Because I know she’s there. Always.

Chapter 50: The Soundtrack of My Soul

Some songs aren’t just songs. Some songs are voices, messengers, guides. They arrive when you need them most — in the middle of a hospital hallway, on a quiet beach at sunset, or while wandering through a city that never feels like home. For me, music has always been more than sound. It’s a lifeline. A map. A bridge between the world I live in and the spirits I carry with me.

Each track I return to carries a memory, a presence, a whisper from those I love. Whitney Houston taught me resilience and grace when the world tried to break me. Tupac reminded me of my power, my rage, my joy, and the necessity of speaking truth. My grandma Elizabeth — ERV — is there in every note, every chorus, every lyric that whispers, “Hold on, darling. You’re stronger than you know.”

These songs are the soundtrack of my soul, the invisible threads that connect me to the spirits I honor and the lives I’ve lived. They tell the story of survival, love, loss, and faith. They remind me that even when the world falls apart, even when I am alone, I am never truly alone.

Here are the songs that carry me. The songs that speak to me, through me, and sometimes, even with me.

Chapter 51: Miss You — The Rolling Stones

This is my grandma’s song too — Lord, I miss you, child! Every time it plays, I feel her right there beside me, walking through the streets, smiling, shaking her head at my wild ways.

When he sings:

“I’ve been walking Central Park
Singing after dark
People think I’m crazy
Stumbling on my feet
Shuffling through the street
Asking people, ‘What’s the matter with you, boy?’”

— that’s me. Walking through London, from Kensington to Kings Road. People stop and stare, ask, “What’s the matter with you?” I just laugh and keep moving, humming along, because it doesn’t matter what they think. My pact is with me: Grandma ERV, Grandpa, Tupac, Whitney — they’re all there, guiding my steps.

The song makes the world come alive. Birds start chirping outside my window, dancing in the sky as if they know this is our time. Sometimes it’s just friends calling, saying:

“Hey, what’s the matter, man?
We’re gonna come around at twelve
With some Puerto Rican girls that are just dying to meet you
We’re gonna bring a case of wine
Hey, let’s go mess and fool around
You know, like we used to”

And I can almost feel it — Bondi Beach, Australia. The waves crashing, the sun painting the horizon, a case of champagne by my side. That’s my kind of heaven. The memory and the music mix together, bringing laughter, freedom, and a little bit of mischief.

Every note, every lyric, every oooh, aaah… it’s a call from the past, a reminder that love and friendship, joy and mischief, are eternal. My grandma, my spirits, my pact — they all dance with me in the sky, in the waves, in the streets. Miss you isn’t just a song; it’s a bridge, a heartbeat, a way to feel her love every day.

Chapter 52 — My culture


This song is my grandfather’s song. Maxi Jaxx — that’s me and Grandpa. When it starts, I feel the words before they even reach me, like Max Beesley is speaking straight to my heart. The words couldn’t be truer. Every line, every beat, feels like a conversation with my grandfather, my father, my four fathers, and every ancestor that made me who I am.

“I’m the sum total of my ancestors
I carry their DNA
We are representatives of a long line of people
And we carried them around everywhere…”

Every time I hear this, I see Grandpa in my mind — wise, calm, proud. I feel the weight of the long line of people behind me, reaching back to the beginning of time. When we meet, all our lines connect, all our spirits intertwine. My pact with Grandma ERV, Grandpa Vieira, Tupac, Whitney, and the rest of my legends flows through me, stronger and more organized than ever. Pac comes first, Whitney, then my grandparents — it’s all in order now, clear and precise.

Papa used to say, “We have to be wise to live long lives,” and now I understand him. I see the value of every word left unsaid, every spirit left unfed. My father died before I was born, so this verse always reminds me of him, like a whisper from the past carried in my blood:

“Within me, my ancestry
Givin’ me continuity…”

I feel it — the strength, the continuity, the lineage. I carry it forward without shame. I live to make my grandfather proud. He was respected in his hood, a man of honor, and I try every day to lead by example, just like he did.

“I never wanna shame
the blood in my veins and bring pain
to my sweet grandfather’s face.”

This is who I am. What I feel is surreal — a massive spinning wheel, always digging in my heels, always loud. Ask my grandma. She’ll tell you.

I pray for all the mothers who get no sleep, for the people who built me, who shaped my soul. My compassion runs deep, tied to the blood, the lessons, the spirits that never left me. And if I don’t see my own strength, I can’t move forward — it’s that simple.

“I pray for all the mothers who get no sleep
like a lifeline I light lines cause my compassion is deep
for the people who fashioned me, my soul to keep…”

I used to hear it differently — “like a live lion” — and it’s still true. Going back to the roots, continuing the interlude, feeding the spirits, honoring the ancestors, and checking what the future brings. They all know, from the past to now, guiding me, keeping me safe, keeping me aligned.

This song isn’t just a song. It’s my lineage, my ancestors speaking, my pact with the spirits, and the foundation for everything I am and will become.

Chapter 53 – Don´t You Worry Child.

That song used to be my anthem for a long time. I still love it because it rings so true — like a promise stitched into the air.

There was a time I used to look into my father’s eyes, in a happy home. I was a king, I had a golden throne. Those days are gone; now the memory’s on the wall. I used to be the king until my grandparents passed away… but when the chorus hits — “See Heaven’s got a plan for you” — I always hear my grandma. That’s her voice: steady, sure, whispering from the other side, “Vai dar certo, minha filha.” Heaven really does have a plan for me, she’d say, and the song translates it into something the whole world can feel.

I remember the exact Friday in Bondi like it was a sacred postcard. I’d just left LA and fallen in love at first sight with that beach — the water was clean, the sky so wide it made you believe anything was possible. I came on a visitor visa for three months, with nothing certain but a dream and a playlist on repeat. Don’t You Worry Child played like a ritual; every chorus burned in my chest like fuel.

Three days before my visa was up, the Australia Financial Review called me for an interview. I don’t know how it landed in my lap — maybe it was prayer, maybe it was luck, maybe Tupac nudging from somewhere — but my boss, Raj, went through hoops to hire me, to sponsor me, to change my life into something that lasted five years. I still laugh remembering that little test they asked me to do — a tiny job to improve their mobile site.

 It was a piece of cake, but I’d been distracted by life and nervous roommate drama. My roommate would piss me off at the worst times, but I focused. I steadied. I showed up. By sunset that same Friday, the offer came: You are hired. Start date after Australia Day. I played the song on repeat until my throat felt raw from singing.

That moment — the sun sinking into the Pacific, the phone buzzing, the city of Bondi turning gold — it felt like a confirmation. The vision board that had been tacked to my wall for years finally winked back at me. Bondi had been on that board: dolphins, rainbows, clean sand, surf, epic sunsets and sunrises. It wasn’t just a checklist. It was a prayer written in lipstick and Post-its and stubborn hope. I’d been living the dream.

Bondi became more than a place; it became an alchemy of survival and creation. I started the idea for Bondi Bubble there — a tiny seed of an app born from sunrise conversations and late-night coffee. The first bubble burst like every first try does, messy and loud. But seeds don’t die when bubbles pop. They go deeper. That little app taught me how to build, how to fail, and how to make something that matters. Today, the dream is bigger than code or servers. It’s a movement, a story I’m learning to tell step by step.

The song kept being my soundtrack through it all. When I lost myself, it called me back. When I doubted, it whispered that the map would appear. When the world looked like a closed door, Whitney and Tupac and Grandma would line up behind those speakers, and the chorus would push the door open.

There’s magic in that: the exact second a song becomes more than sound — when it becomes a signal. For me, Don’t You Worry Child was that signal. It told me to keep walking even when the nights were long, even when the oceans seemed too wide. It reminded me that we are all part of something larger than our fear.

Now when I play it, it’s not just nostalgia. It’s a covenant. I think of Grandma ERV, with her hands folded, eyes soft, trusting that God or fate or whatever you want to call it has plans for me I can’t imagine yet. I think of Raj, who saw something in me and bent the rules so I could stay. I think of my younger self in Seattle and LA, dreaming into the dark, and I smile.
So I keep writing the book, building the app, planting one small flag after another. I tell myself the truth the chorus taught me: don’t worry, because heaven — or the universe, or my pact — has a plan. I don’t have to carry everything alone. I just have to keep showing up, step by step, song by song.

And when doubt creeps in — when the contracts look thin, and the nights are long, and the world is tired — I press play, close my eyes, and hear it again: “There was a time I would have believed it, but I know that time has gone…” And then I remember: we came a long way. We’re still going. The road keeps opening. The dream keeps growing. The music keeps saying, don’t you worry, child.


🎵 Next Page — in Rhythm & Spirit.