Where the reindeer’s trail fades into silence, where the sun no longer rises above the pine crowns, there lies Manala — the realm of rest, the land without breath, where eternity whispers. A traveler with a beating heart shall not find it — only a soul, freed from flesh, glides there upon unseen rivers that flow backward from life.
Manala is not merely a place. It is stillness made into space. It is the grey beyond, where no bird sings, where the wind breathes evenly, like the ancient earth itself exhaling. Pain is unknown there — and so is joy. All is calm, all shrouded in a mist where even memories have softened edges.
They say the border between worlds is watched by spirit-sentinels — the shadows of the old ones, whose eyes glow faintly, like embers beneath ash. They speak no words, yet they hear every thought, every trembling of the heart that comes from the other shore. A black river runs through Manala — Hiiyu Lake or Mustaväe, as some call it — and upon its waters drift the boats of the dead, oarless, guided only by the breath of the death-goddess: Manala Emä, the Mother, who carries her children into the arms of timelessness.
In that land, the trees do not rustle — they only remember. Stones hold the traces of footsteps long vanished, and the moss grows not for beauty, but for silence. Time in Manala is not destruction, but forgetting: all things remain, but nothing moves. The souls rest, deep in a dream, and only sometimes return to the dreams of the living — not to frighten, but to remind that the path of earth is but a part of a greater circle.
No roads lead there — only the shadows of remembrance. But all know that Manala awaits. Not as an enemy. Not as a friend. But as the final song, sung in the whisper of the forest, like a lullaby echoing to the stars as they drift beyond the horizon.
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