Ravi sat low near the edge of the road, the papers shaking slightly in his hands. The numbers still burned in his head. Millions dead. Cities drowning in waste. Water turning people sick. He shut his eyes for a moment. The street was quiet. A distant horn. A dog barking far away. His car headlights still lit the spot where he had thrown his leftover dinner. That act, so easy a while ago, now felt wrong. Almost careless.
His thoughts ran in circles. Just one box. Just one bag. It won’t matter. But it did.
Suddenly, a memory rose. Not sharp. Soft.
His grandparents, sitting outside their house in the evening. His grandfather would rinse a plate before placing it near the tap. His grandmother would say, “Clean first. Dirt spreads faster than we think.” They spoke often about keeping the space around them clean. Not for praise. Not for rules. Just because it was right.
Ravi had never paid much attention then.
A light wind passed. A crushed paper slipped from somewhere and fell near his feet. Ravi opened his eyes. The paper lay there, small and harmless, yet loud in its meaning.
He picked it up. His eyes searched the street. A dustbin stood a few steps away. He walked toward it and dropped the paper inside. The sound was soft. Final.
As he turned back, his foot caught the edge of the curb. He lost balance and stumbled forward. There was a thud.
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