Under the hood

Built so that what she knows
can only be yours

This page is for the people who want to know exactly how the promise is kept. No hand-waving — this is how she's actually put together.

The two halves

The home is Mia herself — one program running on your own PC. It holds the mind, all memory, all files, every action. The relay is a small server we run that owns her public phone number and shuttles calls and texts to your house. It never sees her memory and holds nothing personal — it is a switchboard, not a library.

 your phone ──── phone network ──── THE RELAY (our small switchboard)
                                        │  it stores nothing
                                        │  one outbound, authenticated link
                                    YOUR HOME PC
                                    Mia: mind · memory · files
      

Your home dials out to the relay and keeps that one connection open. There is no open port on your network, nothing exposed to the internet, nothing to scan for. If someone attacks the relay, there is nothing of yours there to take.

What stays home, and what transits

We say this precisely, because the difference matters:

The honest one-liner: your record lives only in your house; the conversation itself rides the wires while it's happening — like every phone call you've ever made.

Five kinds of memory

Memory is what makes her a companion instead of a chatbot. All five layers are files on your disk:

Her memory even behaves like memory: recently touched things stay warm at the surface, untouched ones cool and settle — but nothing is ever deleted, and one good question warms an old memory right back up.

The security model: the AI never holds the keys

This is the heart of why she's safe to hold your personal life:

The household: one number, everyone welcome, nothing leaked

Register your people by phone number and Mia knows who's calling:

And it runs both ways: on your word she texts a person or a whole circle ("text everyone — dinner's at six"), with family and work hard-separated in code so one word can never reach the wrong list. Nobody is ever messaged who didn't reply YES to a one-time opt-in — the courtesy rule and the carrier-compliance rule are the same line of code.

The confidences law: what one family member tells her privately never surfaces to another — not in a summary, not in recall, not by accident. It's enforced in the architecture (every memory row knows whose it is), not promised in a policy. She keeps a secret the way a trusted family member does.

Text is king

Every ability works by text message, identically to voice and the dashboard — same code underneath, shipped together. Text her a PDF from a waiting room and it lands in the same document memory as one dropped on her dashboard. Ask by text for a photo and the same search runs as on a call. The phone in your pocket is never a second-class door.

The hard questions, answered straight

What if the hard drive dies?

The flip side of owning your data is stewarding it — so she stewards it for you. On a schedule (and any time you ask), she zips her memory and emails it to your own inbox — it's tiny, because the memory that makes her her is text, not media. We store nothing. A dead drive means: reinstall, drop the last backup zip in the folder, re-activate — and she's back, remembering everything.

Can someone jailbreak her into spilling everything?

The honest claim isn't "unjailbreakable" — nobody can claim that. It's that the blast radius is capped: the model has no standing access to files, house, or history, so most "spill everything" attacks hit a wall — there's nothing there to reach. What it could be talked into is misusing a tool it legitimately has, which is why consequential actions are read back and confirmed, and personal data stays locked behind the access phrase.

What if someone spoofs a family member's number?

Owner access takes two factors — the registered number AND the spoken phrase — so a spoofed number never reaches your private life. A spoofed family number gets only what family ever gets: warmth and the ability to leave a message.

What happens when the PC is off, or the internet is out?

She's unreachable until it's back — like your thermostat in a power cut — and her memory is untouched, because files on a disk don't vanish when the power does. She starts with the machine and reconnects on her own. And recovery is in your hands: you press the power button. When a cloud service goes down, you wait and hope.

Can she spend my money?

No — in code, not by promise. Her browser — or a store's own approved API; she fills real Kroger carts through their official developer door — loads shopping carts; you place the order in the store's own app. Password and card fields are refused by her typing hands, and a web page can't talk her into it either: everything she reads on the web is digested under never-obey-the-page orders before her conversational brain hears a word. An assistant that can quietly buy things is exactly the assistant you can't trust with a browser — she was built the other way around.

I stop paying — do I lose everything?

You lose her voice, not her memory. Her service stops and she goes quiet — but every file stays on your disk, readable forever. Resubscribe and she wakes up right where you left off.

Is she always listening to my house?

No. Today she only hears you when you're in a conversation with her. Ambient awareness is a future, strictly opt-in add-on — designed with a physical mute, a visible indicator, and local speech-to-text so room audio would never leave the house at all. "Ownership is the trust model" has to be flawless exactly here, so it ships when it meets that bar.

Notice the pattern: nearly every honest answer describes ownership working as designed, not a crack in it. Mia's failure modes are ones you can see and fix. The cloud's failure modes are the ones you can't — and they'll never put those on a spec sheet.