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I eyed the step suspiciously. It had a split right down the middle in the shape of a grin. For some reason, its good cheer didn't exactly fill me with confidence. But the sunset waits for no one. So up I leapt, over the step and onto the flat roof. The silhouette of Bhaktapur greeted me with a triumphant glow. Dusky temples and dilapidated apartment blocks reached into the golden-dipped sky. Nearby, shadows hanging from the washing line danced in the breeze. As the tired sun slipped behind the rooftops, Ranjan, ever my trusty hiking guide, pointed out the direction of the Annapurna range. Speaking of, the Annapurnas still whispered in my legs as I traipsed back down the steps to Ranjan's family home. Eight days of trekking through the mighty Nepalese mountains to Annapurna Base Camp isn't something the muscles forget in a hurry. Luckily, the perfect distraction awaited. The scene was murky with the gathering darkness, but it remains imprinted in my mind. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was Ranjan's mother. She was grinding ginger and chili into a paste with her mortar and pestle, leaning towards us in hope of gleaning the last of the sun's rays. I gestured in an offer to assist with the meal's preparations. An impossible proposition it seemed, as Ranjan responded by deftly whisking me away to the adjourning room. While the progress of our goat curry wafted through the gaping doorways, we took up our spots on the floor. Ranjan poured us cups of milky rice whisky. A toast to our achievement! Ranjan's now-familiar belly laugh rang out as I confided in him the terror I had endured on the hairline roads winding from Kathmandu to Pokura on our first day. At the time, I had no idea how quickly I would forget those gravel roads once I caught sight of the blue shadows of mountains peeling away into the horizon. A knock at the doorway. Ranjan's mother swooped in, laid out bowls of dal bhat with goat curry. Just as quickly she withdrew and left us to our meal. As a female, this separation felt uncomfortable but I was the guest, not the rule-maker. As the candles burned low, our tales grew high; the mountain lion stalking us at dusk became a confirmed sighting, and perfect hilarity ensued in recounting how our porter could nip through snow in sandals while I was left floundering in my hiking boots. I took my leave with the end of the rice whisky. As I raised a hand in farewell I mused; who knew if we would meet again. Five weeks later the earthquake struck.