Eleonora with her mother and Uncle Alberto, Italy (1986). A family moment from early childhood.
Who He Really Was
Alberto was not a man who moved easily through the world.
He carried too much far too young: the shock of losing his father, the silence that followed, and an absence that shaped every choice that came after.
He was sensitive to a fault — the kind of sensitivity that protects no one, least of all the person who feels it.
And when life became heavier than he could bear, he tried to numb the pain in the only ways he knew: heroin, alcohol, anything that could briefly soften the ache.
In the middle of that struggle, he contracted hepatitis C — one of the many consequences of a life marked by addiction long before anyone around him understood the illness or its dangers.
To many, he appeared defined by the disorder around him — the drugs, the chaos, the parts of his life that were collapsing.
But those who truly knew him saw something different: a gentleness that never disappeared, a heart as big as a house, and a laugh so warm and generous it could light up a room. That part of him endured, even when everything else fell apart.
Yet within the family, he is still remembered as the troublesome one — the source of problems, the cause of past difficulties, the person who “brought chaos.”
They see the wound but repeat the same words, as if the darkest moments of his life were the only ones that existed.
Some even wonder why I ever found anything good in him at all — as if tenderness cannot survive inside someone wounded, or as if love cannot recognise what pain tries to hide.
They remember the addiction without understanding the hurt beneath it; they recall the disorder but overlook the gentleness that lasted until the very end.
In Spirit, that gentleness finally had room to unfold.
The scattered man became steady;
the one who felt lost became remarkably present.
His desire to help was almost fierce — focused, exact, and guided by a clarity he never possessed on Earth.
This book exists because Alberto’s story did not end with his overdose.
Because a complicated man — fragile in life — found, after death, the strength to protect the person who had always loved him without conditions.
His presence continues with the same unmistakable warmth he had in life — including the laugh I still recognise.
If his life had a soundtrack, it would be The Drugs Don’t Work by The Verve: tender, wounded, and impossibly full of heart.
Inside The Book
A man whose life ended in chaos — yet whose presence returned with clarity, precision, and purpose.
A testimony built on direct experience, Spiritist understanding, and evidence:
• Dreams that warned of danger before it arrived — unmistakable, accurate, protective.
• Warnings delivered with sharp clarity during a year of emotional collapse.
• An apport appearing at the exact moment help was asked for — impossible to dismiss.
• A meeting in London orchestrated from Spirit, not coincidence.
• The unseen battle between addiction, despair, and spiritual rescue.
• A niece guided, protected, steadied by the uncle she thought she had lost forever.
• Spiritist explanations interwoven with real events, illuminating what unfolds beyond the physical.
• A story of redemption, continuation, and the fierce loyalty that survives death.
This is not imagination.
Not metaphor.
Not wishful thinking.
It is a record of presence, intervention, and continuity.
Love does not disappear.
It returns.
It protects.
It transforms.
And Alberto — troubled in life, precise in Spirit — continues to guide still.
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English · Italian · Spanish · Portuguese
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Why I Wrote This Book
The Spirit of Alberto
This book began with a question I never imagined I would ask:
Why is a man who struggled so much in life helping me so clearly in death?
I never expected that my uncle — quiet, wounded, often defeated by his own battles — would return with such resolve.
But he did.
Not as a memory.
Not as nostalgia.
But as a presence that moved with precision, almost urgency.
Warnings arrived before events.
Impressions matched reality.
A sign appeared when I needed direction most.
At a moment when I felt broken, he was the one who stood beside me.
I wrote this book because his intervention forced me to rethink everything I believed about suffering, redemption, and the ways in which love survives — even when a life ends violently, unjustly, or far too soon.
This is not a book about grief.
It is a book about unexpected guardianship —
the kind that comes from someone you never imagined would be the one to protect you.