Inside, nestled in grey foam, is a glass orb the size of a grapefruit. It is cold to the touch. A single instruction is printed on the inside of the lid: Place in the centre of the room. Speak your name.

The box arrives on a Tuesday. It is unmarked except for a small silver logo that looks like a closed eye.

Then I close my fist around it and walk back inside.

The glass warms. Light bleeds from within—not harsh, but the colour of late afternoon sun through a window. The orb levitates, just an inch, and begins to hum. Not a machine hum. A human one. A tune I recognise but cannot place.

My wife, Elena, died eleven months ago. The silence in our house has since become a solid thing, a third occupant that sits between the couch and the television, between the kettle and the mug. I had signed up for the beta trial during a three a.m. wave of loneliness that tasted like whiskey and shame. I had forgotten I applied.

She catches me looking and smiles.