It was a quiet Thursday evening when Ravi, our longtime delivery driver, pulled up to the driveway. Normally composed, his movements seemed unusually tense, his hands trembling slightly as he handed over the dinner bag with an urgent glance. As I opened the bag to retrieve the food, I noticed a folded note tucked inside. Written in hurried, deliberate handwriting, it read: “CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.” A chill ran down my spine, and my pulse quickened immediately. The words felt ominous, and I rushed outside under the dim…
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