"If you plant them at twilight, they whisper in the soil," said the voice that belonged to no one in particular.
"But aren't whispers always just echoes," she replied, though no one had asked her anything.
The fruitcake lay there, quietly absorbing the conversation like a sponge to the drizzle of a forgotten rain. Its layers were thick with unspoken riddles, sweet and unsolvable.
"In dreams," interjected a voice from beneath the kitchen table, "the fruitcake becomes a tapestry of possibilities. Recontextualize it!"
Thus, the fruitcake sat, an indifferent custodian of secrets and riddles recontextualized from an unseen orchards' beyond.