The Weeping House of Ashnara

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The rain had been falling since afternoon, soaking the streets of the small town. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the river Ashnara overflowed quietly beside the park. Inside a dimly lit café near Ashnara Park, four men sat at a corner table, enjoying hot pakoras and steaming cups of tea. The café wasn’t fancy—just a roadside shack with tin sheets rattling in the rain—but it was the only lively place in the sleepy town.