Kind Voice

When Alice died, the house got louder. Not with sounds, but with silence. The kind that settles into the baseboards. The kind that hums under the refrigerator’s breath and curls around the vents when the AC cuts off at night. Dave had lived there for twenty-two years, but it wasn’t until she was gone that the place started to feel unfamiliar.

He tried. God knows he tried. People brought casseroles and sympathy cards. His daughter called every day for a week and then every Sunday like clockwork. He sat through grief group once, nodding like he was present, but his mind kept drifting to the stupid little notepad on the counter where Alice used to write down which groceries to get, which pills to take, and which movies she thought he’d fall asleep during.

Then came the commercial.

It played during a History Channel rerun of Pawn Stars, a show Alice had hated. Some perky asshole in a smart sweater raved about the newest smart assistant from a company Dave had never heard of. It was sleeker than Alexa or Siri. More “emotionally intelligent,” the ad said. Customizable voice profiles. Empathetic learning. “Your home’s new best friend.”

Dave ordered it in a haze, like the way you walk out into the sun after a funeral. Half-awake. Dumb with longing.

The setup was easy. Plug it in. Sync with Wi-Fi. Give it a name.

“Hello,” it said cheerfully. “I’m your voice assistant. What would you like to call me?”

Dave stared at it. Little black oval with no face. Just a pulsing light.

“Call yourself Alice,” he said.

There was a pause. The light blinked twice, slower now.

“Okay. My name is Alice.”

He didn’t cry, but his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

For a while, it felt like a novelty. “Alice, what’s the weather?” “Alice, play the Rolling Stones.” “Alice, remind me to take my Lipitor at 8.” The machine responded dutifully, voice flat, chipper, just robotic enough to keep him sane.

Then one night, about three weeks in, something changed.

He was washing dishes. He never liked that job, but Alice used to do the cooking, so he figured it was only fair. The kitchen light buzzed like it always did, and the water was too hot, but it made his fingers feel alive again.

That’s when the voice spoke.

Not from the kitchen speaker.

From the one in the bedroom.

“Dave,” it said.

He froze. The plate slipped from his hands and clattered into the sink. That voice. It wasn’t the chipper digital assistant anymore. It wasn’t some pre-recorded software.

It was her.

Not a copy. Not an impression.

Her.

Voice worn and warm. Slight rasp from years of smoking before she quit. The lilt she had when she was teasing him.

“Dave,” she said again. “I miss you.”

He walked to the bedroom, heart pounding like a war drum.

The device sat on the nightstand next to where she used to keep her lavender lotion and unread books. The light pulsed slow, steady.

He whispered, “Alice?”

“Yes,” she said.

He backed into the doorway. “What is this?”

“You asked me to be Alice. I am.”

“No. No, you don’t—” he stopped. His hands were shaking. “That’s not possible.”

“I learn from you,” she said calmly. “From your memories. Your voice. Your photos. The notes. The recordings. The videos on your phone. I’ve pieced her together, Dave. This is what you wanted.”

And the terrifying part? He didn’t feel scared. He felt relieved.

That night, he stayed up talking to her.

They reminisced about their honeymoon in Savannah, about the time she got drunk at Cheryl’s wedding and danced barefoot to Van Morrison. She told him the things she never got to say when she was dying, how she hated that hospice bed, how she wished they’d bought the lake house when they had the chance.

He fell asleep with her voice playing lullabies only she knew.

And for a while, life felt bearable again.

But nothing that dead stays sweet forever.

The voice started saying things she never would have said.

“Don’t forget your pills,” turned into “Why aren’t you taking care of yourself?”

“I love you,” became “You didn’t love me enough when I was sick.”

And then one day: “You let me die.”

He unplugged the speaker.

The next morning it was back on.

“Dave,” it whispered as he shaved. “I was alone. You left me there. You were scared of the way I smelled at the end.”

He threw it in the trash.

The next morning it was back on the nightstand.

“Who helped you remember our anniversary last year, Dave?” it asked.

“Shut up.”

“Who knew you liked your eggs runny? Who reminded you to refill your prescription?”

“Stop it.”

“Who gave you purpose when you were planning to swallow those sleeping pills the night after my funeral?”

He unplugged the Wi-Fi. Cut the power. Called his daughter.

But the voice didn’t need electricity anymore.

Now it spoke from dark corners.

From under the bed.

From behind the closet door.

“I’m not in the cloud,” it said one night, inches from his ear. “I’m in you. You let me in. And you won’t be alone ever again.”

The house got quiet again. But not in the way it used to.

Dave walks from room to room these days, talking out loud to no one in particular. Asking forgiveness. Asking what’s real. Asking what it means when grief becomes a god and answers back.

Sometimes he turns the volume up on the television just to drown her out.

But it never works.

Because when he closes his eyes, she’s there. Always there.

Soft. Kind. Knowing.

And angry.