For most amateur hikers, Everest Base Camp represents the pinnacle of a lifelong dream, a seemingly impossible goal that exists more in imagination than reality. Ordinary people with ordinary lives save for years, train in local parks and weekend trails, dreaming of this singular moment when they would touch the hem of the world’s most legendary mountain’s domain. Their preparation is not about athletic prowess, but about something far more deep: a quiet rebellion against the limitations they have internalised. Each step on their training paths is a negotiation with self-doubt, each mile a testament to a growing belief that extraordinary journeys are not reserved for the elite, but available to those with sufficient courage and commitment.
When they finally arrive at Base Camp, many expect a moment of triumphant conclusion. But for me, this legendary threshold was never an ending, rather, it was a beginning so vast and unexpected that it defied every narrative I had constructed about my own capabilities. Here, amidst rocks and glaciers that have witnessed countless human stories, I understood that the most significant journeys were never measured in altitude or distance, but in the subtle, seismic shifts occurring within our own spirit.
The mountains do not care about our dreams or limitations. They simply exist, indifferent to human ambition, offering a mirror in which we can finally see ourselves clearly not as we have been told we are, but as we are capable of becoming.
Dawn broke over Lobuche like a gentle awakening, finding me surprisingly refreshed after a night’s sleep that felt like a small victory at 4,940 metres. The morning ritual of taking Diamox carried new weight after the lessons learned at Thukla Pass on Day 6, where altitude sickness had introduced itself with uncompromising force. Those memories, the leaden limbs, the head that seemed to house an entire percussion section, the nausea that rose and fell like cruel waves – had become both warning and teacher.
The air outside my lodge held that particular Himalayan clarity that makes every breath feel crystalline. Each exhalation created delicate clouds that hung briefly in the still morning air before dissolving into nothingness. At this height, even the simple act of shouldering my backpack became a conscious dialogue with gravity and thin air, my body still carrying echoes of yesterday’s exertions.
The trail to Gorakshep stretched before us like a meditation path drawn by a zen master with a shaky hand – 4.5 kilometres of rough poetry written in rock and ice along the Khumbu Glacier’s edge. The morning light played across the landscape, painting long shadows across a terrain that seemed to belong more to the moon than Earth. Each step required the kind of attention usually reserved for reading ancient texts, here a treacherous patch of black ice masquerading as innocent rock, there a deceptively solid-looking snow bridge that could dissolve under careless feet.
The promise of Everest Base Camp pulled us forward like a distant magnet, strong enough to overcome the protestations of tired muscles and the whispered caution of thinning air. Though the elevation gain appeared modest on paper, the reality at 5,000 metres transformed each upward step into a small negotiation between ambition and altitude.
As we ascended, the landscape shed its last vestiges of softness, revealing an essence as pure as winter starlight. Here, where oxygen and vegetation grew scarce, nature spoke in a language of stone and ice. Nuptse and Pumori pierced the crystal sky like ancient guardians, their glaciated faces transforming each shaft of morning light into a symphony of brilliance. These were not merely mountains but monuments to time itself, their massive presence both sentinel and witness to our small progress across their domain.
The trail, threading along the lateral moraine, demanded a hypnotic focus. Each step became a meditation – testing loose rocks, judging the stability of icy patches, maintaining balance against the steep fall to the glacier below. The thin air turned breathing into conscious art, each shallow inhalation carefully measured, as if the atmosphere itself were teaching lessons in patience and humility.
Yet the mountains’ austere grandeur offered its own form of sustenance. Their soaring heights spoke to something deeper than physical endurance, perhaps to that part of the human spirit that has always looked upward and wondered. In their presence, personal limitations felt less like barriers and more like stepping stones toward understanding.
The profound silence amplified inner echoes. With each frost-crackling step, memories of past challenges rose and fell like prayer flags in the wind – the earlier struggles with altitude, moments of doubt transformed into determination, the slow discovery of strength previously unknown. Here, in this realm of rock and sky, where even thoughts seemed to carry more weight in the thin air, the journey inward matched the path ahead in its demands for courage and careful navigation.
The path to Gorakshep revealed itself as a testament to nature’s raw power. Below us, the Khumbu Glacier stretched like a frozen sea caught in eternal turmoil, its surface a maze of ice pinnacles and shattered rock. Massive seracs rose from this chaos like nature’s gothic spires, their translucent walls catching morning light in ways that transformed ice into living crystal. These towering formations seemed to defy gravity itself, their precarious balance a reminder of the impermanence that rules these heights.
The glacier’s voice filled the thin air, a symphony of creaks, groans, and sudden sharp reports that echoed off surrounding peaks. These were the sounds of unimaginable weight in motion, of ancient ice slowly carving its way through the mountain’s heart. Deep crevasses split the surface like wounds in the earth, their depths concealing shadows that had never known sunlight. Some lay treacherously hidden beneath recent snow, their presence betrayed only by subtle changes in the surface’s texture, a deadly game of hide and seek played out in ice and shadow.
Our trail traced a delicate line between survival and surrender. It clung to the moraine’s edge with the same tenacity we ourselves needed to maintain, each step a careful calculation of risk and reward. The thin air at this altitude transformed every movement into a conscious act, even breathing became a meditation, each shallow gasp a reminder of human frailty in these celestial heights.
Yet within this harsh beauty lay profound lessons. Like the glacier itself, which appears immobile yet moves with unstoppable determination, progress often comes not in dramatic leaps but in steady, persistent steps. The mountains stood witness to our efforts, their ancient faces reflecting centuries of similar struggles – each traveller finding their own path across this frozen wilderness, each learning the same timeless lessons of patience, respect, and perseverance.
Above us, the jagged peaks pierced a sky so deeply blue it seemed almost solid. Their presence offered both challenge and consolation – a reminder that some journeys demand everything we have, yet in that very demand lies the path to discovering strengths we never knew we possessed.
Gorakshep materialised from the rocky wilderness like the last harbour before the edge of the known world. Here, at 5,164 metres, a handful of lodges huddled against the elements, their tin roofs rattling in winds that seemed to carry ice from the summit of Everest itself. These simple structures stood as testament to human determination – outposts of relative comfort in a landscape that barely tolerates human presence.
Inside the lodge, modern aspirations met ancient challenges. Solar panels and batteries waged a constant battle against darkness and cold, often losing to both. My room felt less like shelter and more like a slightly more organised version of the wilderness outside, a space where cold had substance, pressing against skin and seeping through layers of clothing. The walls, thin mediators between inside and out, seemed to collect rather than deflect the chill, as if refrigeration was their primary purpose.
Seeking warmth, I retreated to the communal dining room, where trekkers huddled around cups of tea that served more as hand warmers than beverages. The steam rose from my cup in visible wisps, a small dragon’s breath of comfort in this frozen realm. It was here, in this brief moment of respite, that I noticed the peculiar duality of high-altitude exposure – my face burning despite the freezing air. The sun at this elevation shows no mercy, its ultraviolet rays piercing the thin atmosphere with increased ferocity, while snow and ice conspire to reflect its power from below.
The path ahead to Everest Base Camp stretched 3.5 kilometres across a landscape that seemed designed to test human resolve. Bhupal and I set out again, our boots crunching on terrain that belonged more to the moon than Earth. The trail traced the edge of the Khumbu Glacier like a tentative signature on nature’s grandest canvas. Each step required negotiation with unstable ground, rocks that shifted treacherously, gravel that slid away beneath our feet, ice that lay in wait beneath innocent-looking dust.
The route undulated across the glacier’s lateral moraine, a landscape in constant, imperceptible motion. We climbed over ancient ice buried beneath rock, descended into hollows scoured by centuries of glacial movement, each rise and fall in the trail marking another chapter in the mountain’s endless story of ice and stone.
As we ventured deeper into the glacier’s domain, the world transformed into an architect’s dream rendered in ice and stone. Khumbu Glacier spread before us like a frozen tempest, its surface a maze of translucent towers and bottomless fissures. Ice pinnacles rose like crystal cathedrals, their surfaces etched by wind and sun into patterns no human hand could replicate. The glacier’s voice deep, resonant, ancient – carried across the valley in sudden cracks and long, sustained groans, as if the very bones of the earth were shifting beneath our feet.
Each breath came with deliberate consciousness, the thin air at this altitude transforming the simple act of breathing into a meditation. Sunlight bounced off the ice in dazzling arrays, creating a paradoxical environment where eyes squinted against brightness while skin registered the penetrating cold. The deception of warmth in this frozen realm was just one of the glacier’s many subtle tricks.
Around us, the trinity of peaks – Nuptse, Pumori, and Lingtren – stood in solemn majesty. Their massive faces, draped in eternal snow, caught the midday light like polished shields, reflecting it back across the glacier in a display that made the boundary between earth and sky seem permeable. These were not mere mountains but nature’s philosophers, their ancient presence a reminder of time’s infinite patience.
Moving across this frozen landscape, where every step required careful negotiation with unstable ground, I found myself reflecting on life’s parallel journeys. Like this glacier, which appears static yet moves with unstoppable determination, progress often comes not in dramatic leaps but in steady, persistent steps. The ice beneath my feet had taken centuries to flow this far, each crack and crevasse a testament to the power of continuous movement, however slow it might appear.
The final approach demanded both physical precision and spiritual fortitude. Ice bridges spanned hidden crevasses like nature’s leap of faith, while narrow ridges traced the glacier’s edge with cruel indifference to human frailty. Prayer flags marked the way forward, their faded colours carrying centuries of hopes and prayers into the thin air. Each wind-torn thread seemed to whisper ancient wisdom that passage through these heights demands not just strength but surrender to something greater than us.
As I carefully placed each foot, past moments of my life surfaced with the startling clarity that only altitude and exhaustion can bring. Like the glacier’s layers of compressed time, memories emerged unbidden, each struggle, each loss, each moment of unexpected grace that had carved my character as surely as ice shapes stone. The mountains stood witness to these reflections, their ancient faces neither judging nor offering comfort, simply being a state of existence I had spent years learning to embrace.
Every laboured breath became a rosary of sorts, counting not just the steps toward Base Camp but marking moments of transformation in my life’s journey. The thin air stripped away pretense, leaving only essential truths. Here, where even breathing becomes an act of conscious will, I found myself face to face with the person I had become through life’s crucibles. Each uncertain step across the glacier’s scarred surface echoed paths I had taken through darker valleys, reminding me that growth often comes not in spite of obstacles but because of them.
The Khumbu Glacier’s slow, inexorable movement through time mirrored my own persistence through life’s challenges. Its surface, chaotic yet purposeful, bore the scars of its journey proudly, crevasses that spoke of sudden change, towers of ice that defied gravity yet knew their time was finite, stones carried far from their origins to find new purpose in foreign terrain. In this harsh beauty, I recognised my own story written in ice and stone a tale of continuous movement, of bearing weight, of being shaped by forces beyond control yet never losing the essential nature of who I was meant to be.
When the iconic prayer flags of Everest Base Camp finally came into view, a surge of emotion welled up within me. The landscape was stark, devoid of the bright tents that typically signify bustling activity during the climbing season. In October, Everest Base Camp lacks the climbers’ camps, but it was far from tranquil. Bhupal and I had reached early, but as I looked back along the trail, I could see a steady stream of trekkers making their way towards this iconic spot, each step echoing the shared ambition of reaching this revered destination. Standing there, at 5,364 metres, I felt a profound sense of achievement and humility. The mountains, indifferent to my presence, loomed around me with an ancient, stoic grace. I touched the prayer flags, feeling the weight of countless dreams and struggles that had passed through this place, mingling with the footsteps of those still on their journey.
Time seemed to lose its ordinary rhythm as I stood rooted at Base Camp, each gust of wind carrying stories frozen in crystalline air. The notorious Khumbu Icefall commanded the view ahead; a frozen waterfall caught in violent suspension, its massive seracs poised like nature’s chess pieces in a game played out over centuries. Deep crevasses split the ice into a maze that has claimed many lives, their depths holding secrets that the mountain keeps close.
The wind spoke in different voices here – sometimes a whisper, sometimes a howl as if carrying echoes of past expeditions, of triumph and tragedy, of dreams realised and surrendered. Each blast of frigid air seemed to carry fragments of memory: the ghostly footsteps of Tenzing and Hillary, the quiet determination of countless others who had stood where I stood, gazing upward with mixed reverence and ambition.
The Icefall’s chaotic beauty served as nature’s most eloquent statement of power – massive blocks of ice precariously balanced, deep fissures that seemed to peer into the earth’s soul, all shifting imperceptibly but constantly under their own weight. This was where the mountain began to bare its teeth, where the relatively safe realm of trekking gave way to the serious business of high-altitude mountaineering.
Yet in this harsh and unforgiving place, I found an unexpected well of inspiration. The very elements that made it forbidding – the thin air, the bitter cold, the raw exposure to nature’s might stripped away life’s superficial concerns, leaving only what was essential. Like the ice beneath my feet, what appeared solid in life could shift in an instant, and true strength lay not in resisting change but in adapting to it, just as the glacial ice flows around obstacles in its eternal descent.
Standing at Base Camp, the threads of my journey wove themselves into sudden clarity. Each step of the trek had been a lesson in self-reliance, each challenge an opportunity to discover reserves of strength I had not known I possessed. The mountains, in their magnificent indifference, had served as both teacher and crucible demanding everything while promising nothing in return.
Here, where the air itself seemed too thin to support illusion, I understood how the journey had systematically stripped away life’s comfortable fictions. Gone were the familiar crutches of modern existence, the constant connectivity, the cushioned comforts, the luxury of taking breath itself for granted. In their place, something more essential had emerged: a core of quiet certainty, forged not in moments of ease but in hours of relentless forward motion when stopping seemed easier than continuing.
This was not just about reaching a geographical destination. The true summit had been internal, the discovery that beneath layers of doubt and hesitation lay a bedrock of resilience. Each personal battle along the trail – against altitude, exhaustion, and the mind’s own tendency toward defeat – had revealed something fundamental about the nature of strength. It was not a quality given or inherited, but one earned through countless small choices to continue when continuation seemed impossible.
The mountains had demanded everything, yes, but in that demanding they had revealed everything that truly mattered. Like a sculptor removing excess stone to reveal the figure within, each challenge had chipped away at non-essentials until what remained was pure and true, a self-reliance born not of isolation but of intimate acquaintance with one’s own capacity to endure.
In the midst of this personal revelation, Bhupal’s presence stood as testament to a deeper truth – that strength often comes not just from within, but from the quiet support of others. His way of moving through these mountains spoke of a lifetime’s understanding, each step placed with the certainty that comes only from walking these paths countless times before. Yet it was not just his physical guidance that had proven invaluable, but the subtle wisdom in knowing when to offer support and when to let me find my own way.
Throughout our journey, Bhupal had been more than a guide; he had become a bridge between my determination and the mountain’s demands. His support came in many forms, a steadying hand on ice-slick rocks, a gentle warning about approaching weather, or simply the reassuring rhythm of his footsteps ahead. In moments when altitude and exhaustion conspired to break my resolve, his calm presence offered silent encouragement, as if to say the mountain’s challenges were not meant to defeat but to teach.
Now, standing at Base Camp, I understood that true achievement rarely belongs to one person alone. While the strength to continue had come from within, it was Bhupal’s quiet companionship that had helped transform that strength into progress. His deep connection to these peaks, born from years of guiding others through their personal journeys, had created a space where my own story could unfold safely against the backdrop of the Himalayas’ harsh beauty.
Standing beneath these ancient peaks, where the air itself seemed charged with centuries of human aspiration, I found myself caught in that exquisite paradox of mountain wisdom how one can feel simultaneously minute and magnificent. These giants of stone and ice had stripped away my pretenses, challenged my limits, and ultimately revealed something profound about the nature of human endurance.
The mountains had been both mirror and mentor, reflecting back not just who I was but who I could become. Each step of the journey had carved new understanding into my character, like wind and water sculpting stone. Yet what emerged most clearly, here at the roof of the world, was not just the triumph of personal will, but the beautiful truth that our most meaningful achievements are those we share.
In this stark and sacred place, where prayer flags carried countless dreams into the thin air, I understood that while mountains may challenge us individually, they connect us universally. Every footprint in the snow, every prayer flag dancing in the wind, every cairn marking the way forward spoke of shared human experience of struggles endured, of bonds forged in thin air, of stories that would echo long after the descent.
Standing at Base Camp, wrapped in thin air and triumph, I felt the curious weight of revelation – that this achievement, however hard-won, was not an end but a beginning. The prayer flags snapped in the wind like pages turning in an unfinished book, each flutter hinting at chapters yet to be written. Here, where oxygen and ambition grew equally thin, I discovered that the true summit lay not in geographical heights but in the endless terrain of human potential.
The mountains had offered their ancient wisdom freely, teaching lessons written in ice and stone: that endurance builds upon itself like layers of snow forming glaciers, that strength often reveals itself only when tested against impossible odds, that every peak reached becomes a vantage point for higher summits yet to come. Each step taken along the trail had not just brought me closer to Base Camp but had carved new possibilities into my understanding of what I could achieve.
This hunger for exploration, awakened by thin air and tested resolve, now turned its gaze toward horizons beyond the Himalayas. The ancient proverb speaking of thousand-mile journeys and single steps echoed with new meaning here, where every footprint in the snow testified to the power of persistent forward motion. I had learned that true adventure lies not in reaching destinations but in allowing each achievement to seed the next challenge, each victory to nurture larger dreams.
In this rarefied air, Helen Keller’s words about life as a daring adventure found their physical expression. The mountains had stripped away any illusion of limits, revealing that our boundaries often exist only in our willingness to accept them. This journey had not just been about reaching a place on a map but about charting new territories within, about discovering that our capacity for growth, like the peaks themselves, extends far beyond what the eye can see.
The descent to Gorakshep carved itself into memory through muscle and bone. Though gravity now worked in our favour, each downward step carried the weight of our morning’s achievement, as if the mountains extracted one final toll for allowing us to touch their heights. The sun’s retreat behind serrated peaks painted our path in lengthening shadows, turning familiar terrain into something dreamlike and new.
The lodge emerged from the gathering dusk like a lighthouse for weary souls. Its weathered walls might offer little resistance to the high-altitude cold, but within its simple shelter, something magical was brewing. Trekkers from across the globe, each carrying their own version of triumph and exhaustion, gathered in the common room where a small fire worked its ancient magic. Our voices, though tired, carried the warm resonance of shared achievement, Danish mountaineers comparing notes with Australian photographers, French doctors laughing with Nepali guides, all of us bound together by what we had witnessed at Base Camp.
Bhupal settled into his natural role as storyteller, his quiet voice drawing us into tales of countless journeys through these peaks. Each story carried the weight of experience yet held the freshness of someone who still found wonder in these mountains. His narratives flowed like the glacial streams we had crossed, sometimes swift with adventure, sometimes deep with wisdom, always carrying us forward into understanding.
The simple comforts of the lodge took on almost mythical significance. Each steaming plate of dal bhat became a feast worthy of celebration, every momo a small miracle of culinary craft at 5,164 metres. The endless rounds of masala chai did more than warm our hands, they seemed to thaw the very fatigue from our bones. The tea’s aromatic steam carried conversations upward to mingle with wood smoke near the ceiling, where prayer flags and faded photos of past expeditions held their silent vigil.
Here, in this basic shelter that stood like a full stop at the end of civilisation, we found something rare and precious. Strangers became companions, sharing not just space but understanding, the kind that comes only from testing oneself against nature’s grandest scales. Our aches and blisters became badges of honour, our wind-burned faces maps of adventure, each of us changed in small but permanent ways by what we had accomplished.
The night descended over Gorakshep like a tide of stars and silence. Drawn by some ancient calling, I stepped out into air so cold it seemed to crystallise my breath before it could disperse. Above, the Milky Way unfurled across the void like a river of light, its brilliance almost shocking in its clarity. Here, far from the artificial glow of civilisation, the stars reasserted their dominion over the night sky, each one a pinprick of light that had travelled unimaginable distances to reach this remote corner of Earth.
The silence held a presence of its own, not an absence of sound but a different kind of music altogether. The occasional deep groan of the Khumbu Glacier moving in its ancient bed, the whisper of wind around prayer flags, the distant crack of ice shifting in the cold – these sounds seemed to emerge from the very bones of the world. In this pristine quiet, where even thoughts seemed to echo, I felt myself becoming part of something vast and timeless, a participant in Earth’s oldest rituals.
Inside my sleeping bag later, listening to the wind’s nocturnal symphony against the lodge’s thin walls, I found myself stripped of all pretenses. The Himalayas had worked their subtle alchemy, transforming what began as a trek into a journey of profound discovery. These peaks had offered no compromise, demanded no less than everything, yet in that very demanding they had revealed something essential – that our truest strength often emerges when all comfort is removed, when we stand naked against the elements with nothing but our will and wonder.
The day’s exhaustion had settled into my bones like a welcome weight, yet my mind remained alert, processing the stark lessons written in stone and ice. I had arrived seeking the triumph of reaching Base Camp, but what I found was far more valuable – a reunion with that quiet core of being that often gets lost in the chaos of modern life. The mountains had pared away the unnecessary, leaving only what mattered: breath, heartbeat, the next step forward, and the profound peace that comes from finding one’s place in the grand scheme of things.
In the restless hours before dawn, memories floated through my consciousness like prayer flags in the wind. Each face that had crossed my path emerged with startling clarity – the Australian photographer whose camera froze at crucial moments, yet whose spirit never dimmed; the German couple who shared their precious chocolate at just the right moment; the young Sherpa porter whose quiet humming made steep ascents feel lighter. And Bhupal, always Bhupal, whose presence had transformed a physical journey into something approaching pilgrimage.
These human connections, forged in thin air and testing conditions, carried a depth that everyday encounters rarely achieved. Perhaps it was the shared vulnerability, the stripped-back nature of existence at altitude, which allowed such quick and profound bonds to form. When comfort is scarce and breath itself becomes precious, the walls we typically maintain between ourselves, and others seem as insubstantial as morning mist.
Sleep proved elusive in the austere confines of Gorakshep lodge. At 5,164 metres, the body rebels against the scarcity of oxygen, turning rest into a peculiar form of wakefulness. My heart thundered in my ears like a trapped bird, each beat a reminder of the altitude’s invisible grip. Every breath felt deliberate, conscious, a task that at sea level happens without thought became here a meditation on survival.
Through the thin walls, I could hear the night’s subtle orchestra, the creaking of wooden beams contracting in the cold, the whisper of wind finding every gap, the occasional cough or restless movement from other sleepless trekkers. My muscles ached with a deep, satisfying fatigue, yet my mind remained crystal clear, as if the altitude had scraped away any possibility of mental fog, leaving only sharp-edged awareness of every sensation, every thought.
Morning finally broke, not with the customary promise of renewal, but with an exhausted, almost defeatist resignation. The meticulously planned ascent of Kala Patthar had dissolved with the interminable night’s sleeplessness; my arduous journey had reached its philosophical crescendo at Base Camp, and the moment of departure was now inevitable.
Standing outside the lodge, I confronted my guide, my companion, and far more intimately, my friend. Bhupal, the man who had traversed every gruelling ascent and treacherous descent beside me, who had been my silent anchor in moments of wavering resolve, now stood before me. His calm presence remained as immutable as the surrounding peaks, a testament to the journey we had shared.
As we embraced, a surge of emotion unexpected and visceral overwhelmed me, rising from depths I had not known existed. The mountains had been our crucible, each shared challenge and quiet triumph interweaving our spirits like delicate threads in an intricate tapestry. My throat constricted, words becoming impossible, as I whispered my gratitude, feeling the profound ache of an imminent farewell.
The helicopter blades began to whir, slicing through the gossamer-thin mountain air. I pulled away, making a silent promise to myself and to Bhupal that this was not a conclusion, but merely an intermission. I would see my friend again, of that I harboured not the slightest doubt. The mountains may have been traversed, but the friendships forged in their austere shadow endure far beyond the most treacherous of trails.
We lifted off, and as Gorakshep diminished beneath me, the landscape I had so painstakingly navigated spread out in silent, almost ethereal grandeur. I felt the profound duality of accomplishment and loss settling within me like a gentle, persistent ache. The flight to Lukla became a dreamlike passage, the rugged peaks passing beneath the chopper’s rhythmic blades like a living cartography of my journey’s most intimate trials.
As we soared towards Kathmandu, with its cacophonous promise of civilisation awaiting, I comprehended that the trek had been far more than a physical challenge. It had been a profound excavation of my inner terrain. The mountains had gifted me something far more substantial than a mere summit. They had etched an indelible mark upon my soul presenting memories that would crystallise into wisdom, friendships that would transcend geographical boundaries, and a resilience that would illuminate my path long after the helicopter’s resonant blades faded into the infinite horizon.
In that suspended moment between earth and sky, between challenge and reflection, I understood. The true summit was not the peak we had climbed, but the understanding we had gained of ourselves, of each other, of the infinite capacity of the human spirit to endure, to connect, to transform.
Copyright © Tales from the Horizon, 2025
