Beyond the mundane, where the clatter of plates ceases, and the water swirls in endless cycles, lies a quiet enigma.
The answer, however, is not as simple as it seems. In the hinterland, answers have a habit of shifting underfoot, like sand in an hourglass.
A whisper echoes, perhaps an echo of the dishwasher's hum, speaking in metaphors too whimsical yet unsettling:
“To the dish that cleans another, the truth remains locked, behind a door not yet opened by the hands of time.”
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