Maimu gasped. The kratts—Põnn and Päkk—were now sitting on the rug, scratching their wooden heads.
Põnn, the hay one, tugged Maimu’s shoelace. “We need the third reel,” he squeaked. “The end of our summer. Without it, we keep building the same haystack forever.” vanad eesti multikad
Back in the attic, Rein threaded the final reel. The kratts jumped back onto the screen just as the images began to move. There they were, dancing around the singing stone—a piece of Baltic glacial erratics—and as the stone hummed a tune older than Kalevipoeg, the kratts turned into silver birch trees. But instead of fading, they waved. Maimu gasped
“You see,” he whispered. “That’s why they called them multikad . Not just cartoons. Little stories that remember you even after you forget them.” “We need the third reel,” he squeaked