I feel the crisp winter air stripping the inside of my throat as I breathe. I didn’t think the Great White North would be this cold. I look down at my phone, my hands shaking from the acute mixture of vodka and cold, and see that it is 12:27. I need to catch a ferry back to Estonia soon. As I wander the city streets, bathed in heated zones and warm orange lights, I look at the tram stop and see a man with a great white beard and a small black and red hat. He has an instrument on his back, and he is in a simple robe. He isn’t shivering, instead he seems perfectly at ease with the cold. I walk up towards him; there’s something about him I just can’t quite figure out, and it intrigues me. I try to speak to him in Finnish, but my Finnish sounds like that of a toddler with no teeth. He raises out his hand towards my frozen chest, signalling me to stop. I can feel my lungs warm ever so slightly. 

‘I speak your language, fret not. I speak most languages.” 

There’s only a slight trace of accent in his otherwise perfect pronunciation. 

‘Thanks. I’m still learning.’  

‘It is a hard language to learn, no doubt.’ 

The old man has deep, gray eyes. You can see the reflections of time in them. How old was he? 

‘Do you like it here?’ he asked.  

‘It’s cold, but beautiful.’ 

‘Yes, indeed it is. I have been gone for a very long time, but my return was needed, so here I am.’ 

I know that I need to get going. No matter what I try though, I can’t move. I find myself transfixed by the man’s presence. 

‘Would you mind if I sang you a song? You may not understand it very well, but you may like it.’ 

I nod. I can’t control my body at all. I am in the presence of something greater than me. 

He pulls the instrument from his back forward, and begins to sing. His voice is rich and deep, like honey on warm toast. I only pick up a few words here and there. He sings of a time long passed, and mourns the death of a woman named Aino. Behind the man’s eyes, I see a burning rage, but it is not hateful; instead, it feels like remorse. 

He finishes the tune, and I am moved to tears. He looks at me, with an understanding I will spend the rest of my life trying to figure out. As I leave to make my ferry on time, the man shakes my hand. I walk away, and it feels as if the dream has ended for now. 

I hope to hear his song again eventually, before I die. 

The tune felt older than time itself.