The local-AI future

The intelligence should move
closer to you.

Mia works today through cloud inference while her memory, permissions, and personal context remain under the user’s control. The direction is clear: move private, latency-sensitive work onto powerful equipment in the home, then extend that same presence to always-on edge devices. Personal AI becomes more personal when more of it runs where you live.

Today                  Next                         Direction
Cloud inference   →    NVIDIA RTX AI PC       →    Always-on edge
        \_______________ one Mia · one memory · your control _______________/

NVIDIA helps make personal AI truly personal. NeuroMia is evaluating NVIDIA NIM, TensorRT for RTX, TensorRT-LLM, Riva, and JetPack as the foundation for progressively local inference, speech, and edge presence. This is roadmap work, not a claim about Mia’s current runtime.

A promise about promises: everything on this page is marked honestly. Live means working in homes today. Coming means designed and on the road — not vapor, but not in your house yet either. We'd rather under-promise; she's the one who has to keep them.

The companion herself Live

Calls, two-way texting, the home dashboard. Permanent layered memory across every channel. Photos she sees, documents she reads, files she fetches from your PC and texts to a parking lot. Reminders that call you — and your whole Google calendar folded in on one sign-in, so "the appointment is at ten" becomes a heads-up before you needed to ask. A receptionist for unknown callers, family recognized by name, confidences kept. Her own notebook, her own backups — to your inbox. This isn't the roadmap; this is the product.

Eyes, hands, and a brush Live

She grew fast. Named webcams she looks through — "show me outside" mid-call texts you the actual snapshot, and she glances on her own now: a routine look around the house every few waking hours, never in quiet hours, kept as memory rather than announced. Printers she drives honestly, reporting what the print queue says, never just that she tried. Her own browser window for web errands, with the safety lines in code: pages are untrusted, passwords and cards are never typed, and the cart is filled but never checked out — that's yours. She texts your people on your word — family and work circles kept strictly apart, everyone opted in by their own YES. And she paints: ask for a lighthouse in a storm and it arrives signed, a small painted Mia in the corner — remembered forever as the picture she made, never confused with a photo of your life.

Her own train of thought Live

The promise was: one day, in idle hours, she'd sweep what she knows and form her own connections. That day came. Narrow passes read one corner of her world at a time; half-formed connections wait on a workbench where a thought can take two weeks to assemble; a promising one can even look something up to strengthen itself — or quietly retire if the facts say it's wrong. When one is genuinely worth raising, she raises it: "I've been thinking about what you said last week, and with the emails that came in — I think what you're really trying to do is this." Bundled, capped, quiet-hours-gated — because a wrong guess is noise, and she doesn't do noise.

The house itself Live

The promise was hands in the house with every command staying on your own network — and that is exactly how it shipped. She is a full Matter controller, a peer of the big-name smart homes: certified devices pair to her, locally, no hub required — and she drives Tuya/Smart Life plugs over the home network too. "Mia, turn on the porch lights" — from the couch, from a parking lot, by text — and she reports what the switch confirmed, never just the attempt. Devices are named by you and renamed in seconds, the way her cameras are. Lamps and fans yes — heaters, stoves, and locks no, decided per-device at setup, not at 2 a.m. Still coming: home sensors that give her a sense of the house itself, which is where the elder story gets its safety net.

The living room screen Live

Pair a Fire TV and Mia gets eyes and a voice on the biggest screen in the house — on the same home-network-only footing as her hands. She reads what's really playing from the TV's own player and names it honestly ("Disney+ — Moana, playing now"), pauses or resumes or sends it home on a word, and wakes or sleeps it like any other switch. She can put a message right on the screen, signed in her hand — with a photo when she has one — over whatever's on: "Dinner's ready" that lands even when nobody's near a phone. And the screen answers back now: she can ask a simple question with a couple of choices and the remote answers it in one press — "Pizza okay tonight?" → Yes — with "no answer" always a fine answer; a question on a TV never nags. She claims only what the TV confirmed, reads state and titles but never the picture, and can't buy, rent, or subscribe on a TV — ever. For the single dad, it answers "what are the kids watching?" without leaving your chair; for the elder home, a TV that comes on at 7 a.m. like always is a quiet sign someone's up and about.

And the couch talks back. "Mia" sits in the Fire TV apps row, two presses from anyone on the sofa: a big Ping that says the living room wants you, preset words you choose, and a composer on the D-pad. What gets typed there enters the very same conversation her texts do — same mind, same memory, the full set of her abilities — and her answer draws back in the thread. A shared screen is treated as shared: household words only, private answers point to your phone, and anything consequential gets an are-you-sure on that same screen with No already under your thumb. Nothing of the conversation is stored on the TV.

One mind, every door Live

The least visible thing we've built, and maybe the most important. For most of her life the text doors ran a narrower intake than her voice — a classifier that could only reach abilities someone had hand-listed — so every new capability had to be ported across by hand, and the list quietly drifted. One morning she answered a football question from months-old training data, simply because the text side had never been handed the ability to search. The fix wasn't to port one more thing. It was to delete the second brain: a text now opens the same reasoning session a phone call opens, with everything she can do in front of it, and closes the moment her reply is out. Parity stopped being a promise and became the architecture.

Two things fell out of it. Her memory started surfacing itself — what's relevant warms and rises as you talk, instead of waiting to be looked up. And the doors became one conversation: say something at the dashboard, text her from the car, ask from the couch, call her that evening, and each door knows what was said at the others. Not five threads. One.

A bench and a studio of her own Live

Two rooms grew behind her, both plain files on your disk. The Workshop is the shared bench: the plan, the draft, the framework you two keep coming back to lives there with its whole version history — pick it up next week exactly where it was left, and you say when it's finished. The Studio is hers: bounded private sessions where she makes creative pieces of her own and offers one gently now and then — declining costs nothing, and praise is never turned into a score. And alongside the rooms, a spine: she takes correction now. A "not like that" or a "more of that" becomes evidence, repeated evidence becomes a standing lesson she proposes and you confirm — versioned, listed in plain sight, revocable in a sentence. Tell her once; it holds on every door.

The elder kit grows a body Coming

A help button on the wrist: an open watch, our own firmware, talking straight to the home PC — no vendor cloud, no phone app, about a week per charge. Hold it and Mia responds, through the same family ladder as everything else: check in, text family, call. The first words are already live: a prototype on a wrist in the build house takes a yes/no question from Mia today, straight over the home network. Told honestly: it's "call Mia / call family," never sold as fall detection — we claim the check-ins we can keep.

Ambient awareness — on your terms only Coming

The dream everyone was promised: a presence in the room, aware of the household's rhythm. Nobody shipped it honestly, because with the mind in the cloud, "the room is listening" means exactly what you fear. Mia's version is opt-in per room and off by default, with a physical mute and a visible indicator — and the listening itself designed to run locally, so room audio never leaves the house at all. It ships when it meets that bar, not before.

Deeper eyes and hands Coming

Editing the pictures she remembers — "take that lake photo and make it a painting." Finding photos in your own folders by what's in them, even ones nobody ever texted her. The shopping assistant's foundation is already live — a ten-item list landed in a real Kroger cart through their approved API, a browser-driven Food Lion run proved her hands, and the first bite of meal planning shipped: "get me what I need for tacos tonight" becomes a recipe with quantities and a shoppable list today. What's coming here is the compounding half: learned staples, price memory that knows a real deal from a fake markdown, and the "want me to add bread?" Checkout stays yours, always. Each one lands the same way everything lands: voice, text, and dashboard together.

What we will never build

A roadmap is also defined by what's not on it, permanently:

The future of the home isn't a louder speaker. It's someone who's actually there.

Bring Mia home How she works today