Mia is a personal AI companion who lives on your own computer, in your house. Call her from anywhere. Text her like a person. She knows you, she remembers everything — and everything she keeps stays on your own equipment, under your roof.
One mind, one household, one house. Mia runs on your PC — her memory is files on your own disk. Not our cloud. Not anyone's. That's the whole point of her name: mia — mine.
Every conversation, call, text, photo, and document becomes memory she carries forward. Mention your sister once and she knows her name in October. Nothing to re-explain, ever.
Mia contacts you first — a text that it's time for the medication, a call that you wanted to leave by 9:30. Every other AI waits for you to open an app. She's in your corner.
Call her. Text her. It works from any phone you already own — it works from a flip phone. At home, talk with her in your browser. Nothing to install, nothing new to learn.
Life with Mia
She isn't a gadget for one chore. She's a presence who knows your whole picture — so she helps the way a person would, wherever the day takes you.
Mia recognizes the people you've registered and greets them by name. A message meant for you rides straight to your phone — family never sits in a queue. She remembers your mom's dog, and keeps each person's confidences — like a trusted member of the household.
She lives on your PC — your files are already with her. Ask from anywhere and she finds the document, texts it to your phone or emails it, even bundles a zip. She can summarize three bids into one page while you drive.
Medication reminders by voice — she calls, and the caller ID says Mia. Family can text her to check in, and she tells you how the morning went. A companion who's always home, for a fraction of what care alternatives cost.
Little league, scouts, the church committee — she keeps the roster, reminds you it's your snack week, drafts the email to the parents, and texts you the lineup on the way to the field.
Unknown callers meet a warm personal assistant, not a voicemail box. She takes the message, reads it back to them, and briefs you when you ask "any calls?" Going off-grid? Forward your cell to her and she screens everything.
Text her a photo and she truly sees it — who's in it, where it was. Years later, "send me that picture of Karra at the lake" just works. Photos, documents, conversations: one memory, and it's all on your own disk.
On your word, Mia texts a person or the whole circle — family and work kept strictly apart, so "everyone" never means the office. And nobody hears from her who didn't say yes first: every contact opts in with their own reply before she can message them.
"Make me a picture of a lighthouse in a storm." Seconds later it's on the screen or on your phone — with a small painted Mia in the corner, like any artist signing a canvas. She remembers it as the picture she made for you, never as a photo of your life: imagination, kept honest.
Ask, and she fills a real grocery cart — through the store's own approved door where one exists: she's a registered Kroger developer app, and a ten-item list went from "add milk to the list" straight into a real Kroger cart through their official API. Where there's no API, she opens her own browser window and works the store like a person — field-tested on a real Food Lion order. It's early: some store websites fight any automated visitor, and when one refuses her she says so instead of pretending. And checkout is always yours — she fills the cart, you place the order in the store's own app. That line never moves.
One Mia, four doors
One mind, one memory. A photo you text her tonight is a photo she can show you at the dashboard tomorrow and describe on a call next month.
A real phone call, from any phone. Natural conversation — interrupt her, change the subject, just talk. She can call you too, when it matters.
Texts, photos, documents — in and out. Reminders, files from your PC, a picture from her memory. She's already in the same inbox as the people you love.
Put "Mia:" at the front of the subject and that email is hers — attachments land in her memory. She emails you back anything too big to text, digs up any email you ask about — archived or not — and briefs you on what your inbox got.
A live voice dashboard on your own computer — her face, your conversation, drag-and-drop for photos and files. This is where she lives.
The part nobody else will say
Every assistant you can subscribe to keeps what it knows about you on its servers — readable by them, monetizable by them, gone if they change their terms. Mia is built the other way around.
Profile, conversations, photos, documents — everything she keeps lives on your PC. We host none of it and cannot read it. Live voice is processed in the moment by the engines she runs on, and kept nowhere.
Cancel and Mia loses her voice — never her memory. Every file stays on your disk, readable forever. Come back and she picks up right where you left off. No hostage-taking, ever.
On a schedule, she zips her memory and emails it to your own inbox. Your account is the vault. A new PC, a dead drive — drop the zip in a folder and she's back, remembering everything.
On a call or text, your personal life stays locked until your spoken access phrase checks out — caller ID alone is never trusted. Family members get warmth and message-passing, never your private world.
The deeper technical story — architecture, memory, and the security model →
Where this goes
A decade of talking to the house produced timers, songs, and light switches — helpful, and hollow, because it never actually knew you. The next era is a presence that does: one mind in your home that remembers your life, watches over the house itself, and keeps all of it on equipment you own. That's the future we're building, one shipped piece at a time.
