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In the ancient lore of the Estonians, there dwelled Tooni—the Lord of the Underworld, whose dominion stretched beyond the threshold of the final twilight. He was neither a stern punisher nor a merciful guardian; his face remained veiled beneath the shroud of eternal night, and his heart lay motionless, like a frozen lake beneath its crust of ice. In this indifference dwelled a peculiar, unsettling grandeur, as though death itself had assumed a form without malice and without pity.

It was believed that when late autumn slowly lulled the world into a grey slumber, when the last leaves fell from the blackened branches, the souls of the departed returned along unseen paths that wound from the shores of the afterlife to the thresholds of mortal homes. With them came the shadow of Tooni himself—a noiseless sigh from his starless realm. In those nights, houses filled with an intangible presence: cold as the breath of the wind, and heavy, like a shroud laid upon the heart.

To soothe the wavering shades, the living lit fires in their hearths and heated the bathhouse, where coils of steam mingled with the unseen silhouettes of those who had once passed into the final darkness. Separate tables were laid for the souls—humble bread and water, an offering that bound the two worlds with a fragile thread of remembrance. And no voice rose during these hours: everything fell silent in reverent stillness, as though the earth itself, the forests, and the cold marshes were listening to the steps of the returned.

Thus did people honor the impartial Lord who ruled the last threshold—the one that no soul may cross twice. And in this somber veneration gleamed a strange beauty: like moonlight upon black water, like the quiet rustle of the past, which can never again become the present.

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