Do you remember who you were before this life?
This book is the true journey of Wanda-Gabriella, whose childhood memories opened the doors to many past lives on Earth and two beyond. From Tutankhamun and Marie Antoinette and forgotten lives in distant worlds, she shares her vivid recollections with honesty and courage.
Raised in an orphanage, she was encouraged to speak of her visions—until tragedy struck and she was silenced. Decades later, her story returns, weaving together history, reincarnation, and spiritual truth in a voice both poetic and raw.This is not fiction. It is testimony: of a soul that has walked through centuries, carrying memories that cannot be denied. A book for seekers, dreamers, and all who have ever felt that life is more than one single story - now available as book and e-bok on Amazon
❧───────────────✵───────────────❧
LEONARDO & WANDA
THE LUMINOUS TRUTH
Moments from the book- - where time, the soul and silence remember one another.
The Orphanage and My Past Lives
One day we were all outside in the yard. It was spring, the air smelled of wet asphalt and earth. Suddenly a black Volga drove in through the gates. It rolled forward soundlessly, in a way that felt threatening. A man in a dark coat stepped out, looked at us without truly seeing us, and said in a short, cold voice: “Which one of you is Wanda?”
The air thickened. Something rose within me – not fear, but a guardian I had always known yet never met so clearly. The black angel. He did not come to stand beside me. He came through me, as if he had always lived in a windowless room inside me and now opened the door. My spine grew heavy, my voice took on a tone I had never heard from myself: “She is not at your disposal.”
The man stopped, looked at me, and without a word walked back toward the car. He opened the door and sat beside the driver. “Let’s go,” I heard him say.
Another man in the car asked, astonished: “Why not? Aren’t we taking her?”
The man in the coat replied, in a voice concealing something he would not admit: “No. I dare not.”
The second man turned his head toward me, stared at me for a long time, and asked: “Who are you, that makes him turn away?”
I answered calmly, without hesitation: “It is my father’s angels who protect me.”
They said no more. The doors slammed shut, and the car rolled out through the gates, as soundlessly as it had come.
That evening the teacher asked what had happened. “He is the one who walks with me through the night,” I said. “He is not fallen. He watches when the light is too far away.” She wrote those words down too.
My Life as Tutankhamun
And yet, I discovered a kind of freedom.
I loved to drive the Egyptian two-wheeled chariot.
When the horses galloped, I felt the wind tear through my hair, I felt the speed I could never have in my own body. For those moments, I was not a crippled boy — I was a ruler of the desert.
One day, I set out as usual. The chariot rattled over the stones, and I held the reins tightly, intoxicated by the sense of flight.
Then I heard it: wheels behind me, someone approaching.
Because of my fused spine, I could not simply glance over my shoulder. I twisted my whole body to look — and in that instant I lost sight of the road.
The wheel struck a stone, small yet merciless. The chariot lurched, toppled, and I was thrown violently to the ground.
As I lifted my eyes, I saw the priest driving close behind. His face was twisted with anger, his gaze burning with something darker than chance. He could have pulled the reins, could have stopped the horse. But he did not. Instead, with fury in his eyes, he drove the chariot straight over my legs.
The bones shattered. Pain seared through me, and then came the stillness.
I could see, I could feel, but I could not move. Not a finger, not an eyelid, not even a breath of sound escaped my throat. My body had become a coffin, my soul locked inside.
They believed me dead.
The Portrait and the Silent Mountain
It was a day when colors felt unusually alive beneath my fingers. I had agreed to paint a portrait of my brother-in-law’s friend’s son. The brush followed the contours of his face with ease, every shadow and glimmer of light falling into place as though it had always belonged there.
And yet, the more I worked, the stronger grew the sense that something was missing. An emptiness in the background called out to be filled.
Without thought, my hand moved of its own accord. I began to paint a mountain – tall, majestic, rising toward the heavens, just as I had seen it countless times in American films. The Paramount mountain, an icon from the realm of dreams, emerged behind the boy’s figure. It was never planned, only an inexplicable impulse that guided my brush.
When the portrait was finished and delivered, the room fell into stillness. My brother-in-law’s friend turned pale. His voice trembled with shock:
“How could you know?”
His son had perished in a climbing accident – upon that very mountain.
What I had painted was not merely a backdrop; it was a portal to memory, a mirror of a soul lost too soon.