You arrive before dawn in the lowlands where the horizon is a flat line of rice paddies and lone acacia trees. The guide steers an air-conditioned vehicle along a road that unspools through villages—ox-carts and temple flags passing in the periphery—until a hulking column of rock rises from the plain like a deliberate punctuation mark. At the base of Sigiriya, stairs begin abruptly, metal rails clinging to the cliff as if to coax visitors upward. By the time you reach the famous mirror wall and the patched frescoes halfway up, the sky has warmed and the valley below exhales a green, humid breath.