Ananya Pradhan One The mist clung thickly to the hills of Darjeeling that September evening, wrapping the sleepy town in a soft, silver-gray blanket. Outside the gates of St. Augustine’s Hill School, where ancient pines swayed gently in the cool breeze, Anaya Gurung tended the modest tea stall her mother had set up years ago. The worn wooden counter was streaked with years of spilled chai and chalk dust, a testament to its humble history. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the streetlamps flickered on, casting pools of warm yellow light on the wet cobblestones. Anaya moved with quiet…