Say it.
Press and hold the button: “The spare key is in the blue tin.”
A four-inch six-colour electronic paper frame that holds a photo and sticks to the fridge door, the whiteboard, any steel surface. Press and hold the button and say where something went; anyone can ask, it answers out loud.
The problem
You put the passport somewhere sensible while carrying two bags and answering a text. That second never got stored — not in your head, and not anywhere else in the house.
How it works
Press and hold the button: “The spare key is in the blue tin.”
The sentence, and the day you said it. Nothing else.
Anyone standing there: “Where’s the spare key?” It answers out loud.
Sunday
You’re the one who knows where everything is. Nobody gave you that job; the whole house just assumes it.
So while you’re putting the groceries away, you press and hold the button and say it out loud: “The ginger is in the back of the bottom drawer. Ben’s shin guards are on the shelf by the boots.”
Thursday, 8:10 a.m. You’re upstairs on a call. Ben doesn’t shout up to you — he presses the button and asks. It answers out loud: on the shelf by the boots, and that you said so on Sunday.
Saturday
Twelve minutes left on the rice, hands wet — and you’ve just remembered your dad’s birthday is next week. Both of those are sitting in your head now, and one of them is going to fall out.
Press and hold the button: “Remind me in twelve minutes.” Then: “Remind me on the 8th — Dad’s birthday is the 9th.”
Twelve minutes later it speaks up, in the kitchen where you’re standing. On the 8th it speaks up again.
The screen
The screen holds a photo. It’s electronic paper, not a display — no backlight, nothing to dim, no glare to angle away from. You read it by the light already in the room, the way you’d look at a print.
It keeps that image with the power off. Pull the plug and the photo is still there.
Everything else happens out loud. You ask; it answers. The screen stays a picture.
Specs
| Memory | Keeps what you told it, and when you said it. |
|---|---|
| Asking | One kind of question: where you put something, or what you told it. A phone belongs to one person; everyone in the house can ask this one, and nobody registers an account. |
| Describing | Can’t name it? “The glasses I read the paper with” still works. |
Straight answers
No camera, and no wake word — so no open microphone. It has no name to listen for.
The microphone opens when you press and hold the button and closes when you let go. Not a permission you granted once. A button you are holding down with your thumb.
It doesn’t know where anything is unless you told it. Nothing is sensed or scanned. If you never said it, it says so — it won’t guess.
What it does: ask where something went, get a spoken answer with the day it was said. Reminders speak up on time.
What we won’t do: no tags, no trackers, no radio locating. Nothing gets stuck to your keys.
One form, one purpose: an email you choose to leave, for a single launch note. No accounts, no analytics, no third-party scripts. Your language choice stays in your browser.
Questions
No. Nothing gets stuck to your keys, and nothing is being located by radio. It knows where something is for exactly one reason: somebody said so out loud.
Then it doesn’t know, and it will say so. It can’t record a second you never spoke. What it can do is make saying it cost about one second, with wet hands, from across the kitchen.
You can ask it one kind of question: where you put something, or what you told it. It won’t play music, answer trivia, read the weather or shop for you.
You can say anything you like and ask for it back. It understands enough to know that “keys” went “on the hall cabinet”.
It does not understand medicine, does not track doses, and will never tell you what to take.
The person in the house everybody else asks. It works the same for whoever is standing in front of it.
When it ships