Ravi stared at the small, grimy bottle in his palm. The label was faded, Dr. Fenwick’s Medicinal Ale, London, 1845, its glass coated in muck and grime. He grimaced at the slime on his fingers. Why am I even hesitating? he thought. It’s just trash in a world drowning in trash.

Without a second thought, he let it slip through his fingers, tossing it carelessly onto the same filthy street where he had found it. The clink of glass against the ground was oddly loud in the heavy silence.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a low murmur rose in the distance, like a crowd coughing in unison. The stench in the air thickened, turning sour and choking.

Ravi stepped back, unsure. People nearby began to stumble. A child collapsed in the street. Across the way, a man clutched his stomach and sank to the ground. Panic rippled outward. The disease, the same one that had been festering quietly, was spreading faster now, feeding on neglect and indifference.

Ravi’s chest tightened. He tried to run back to the door, but it had vanished. His surroundings blurred as sirens wailed and shadows fell. He coughed, once, twice, until his knees buckled. Around him, the world crumbled under invisible hands of sickness.

The lesson was clear, but it came too late. One small action, just picking it up and disposing of it properly, could have changed everything. The ground swallowed him into a spinning void of sound and color.

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What did Ravi Do?