It began whispering at 2:14 a.m.
Softly, behind the orange juice and next to the existentially brooding brie, a low murmur:
> "Don't trust the mayonnaise."
Maurice, who had simply wanted a late-night snack, froze mid-reach. "What?"
The fridge light dimmed slightly—just enough to suggest discretion. Picklebot beeped awake:
> "Alert: Refrigerator has entered Confidential Cold Mode. It has classified files."
Joy blinked at the digital display, now showing a pulsing green lock icon. "What kind of files?"
Picklebot hesitated. "Emotional. And pickled."
Inside a butter compartment sealed in ice, they found a folder. It contained:
– A crayon drawing from 1997 labeled My Dream Sandwich
– A napkin with "I forgive you" written in chocolate syrup
– A photograph of Gregory hugging a watermelon with unsettling intensity
Maurice gasped. "It's... archiving our cravings."
Gregory whispered, "That watermelon knew too much."
The fridge now only opens after hearing a secret—just one.
