Visiting Iceland in the middle of winter in the hunt for the Northern Lights was an adventure in itself: after a day of wind-swept landscapes and steaming geothermal pools, I slept under a glass igloo, and in the silent hours the sky opened in rays of green and purple that felt as if the heavens had peeled back a curtain. The aurora moved with slow, otherworldly grace—rippling, folding, and then bursting into curtains that painted the snowfields below—turning the night into something both mysterious and majestic. Every breath of cold air, every crunch of snow underfoot, amplified the sense of being a small witness to a vast, living sky.