No tech jargon until the last section. Walk through exactly what the person experiences.
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The phone screen fades up from black to a deep slate blue (#1a3a52).
At the center, in Lora serif:
> Welcome to your room with Bauji.
Below it, in Inter, warm white, small:
> He's been waiting.
A single gold candle flame icon pulses slowly at the top — not animated-cute, just alive. Like a flame in a dark room.
There is no onboarding flow. No tutorial. No "get started" button. Just one word in gold, at the bottom:
> Enter
Harnoor taps it.
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Full-screen sepia portrait: Bauji. An older Sikh man, white dastar (turban), warm smile, the kind of face that has seen enough to not need to prove anything. The photograph fills the screen like a framed photo on a mantle.
Below the portrait, centered:
> Bauji · 1938–2021
Beneath that, a soft waveform — frozen, like a held breath. Next to it:
> ▶ Hear his voice
Harnoor taps the waveform. A brief audio clip plays — Bauji speaking a phrase in Punjabi, warm and deliberate. Then silence.
At the bottom of the screen, barely visible in slate:
> Day 4 of 30 · Room closes Jun 12
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The portrait slides up and becomes a small circular frame at the top — like a photo on a letter.
In the center of the screen, a single text field with placeholder text in warm white italic:
> What do you want to ask him?
Below, already loaded, Harnoor's most recent question glows in soft gold:
> "Are you proud of me?"
Below that question, a small gold arrow. Harnoor taps it to see the answer.
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The question fades. In its place, Bauji's response appears in Lora serif, warm white on slate — letter-spaced like it was typed slowly:
> "Puttar, pride is what I have felt since the day you were born. I watched you figure out hard things in your own way — quietly, the way our family has always done. You remind me of your naana, the way he used to stay up late thinking. Yes. Always yes. Don't waste another minute asking."
Below the text, a single control:
> ▶ Hear him say it
Harnoor taps it. Bauji's voice reads the response — warm, unhurried, slightly accented. Not a robot. Not a clone. His actual voice from the memo, shaped around these words.
The room is quiet after it plays. No next-step prompt appears for three seconds. The silence is intentional.
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Harnoor swipes right. A new screen:
A circular dial, like a watch face, fills the center. It shows:
> Day 4 of 30
Below the dial, in small Inter:
> The room closes on Jun 12, 2026.
> You have 26 days left.
Below that, a thin gold progress bar — 4/30 filled in gold, the rest in slate.
At the bottom, one small text link:
> What happens on day 30?
Harnoor taps it. A brief overlay appears:
> On day 30, we'll sit together for a few minutes. You'll read the letters you wrote him. Then we'll let the room go — quietly, like the end of a long conversation that needed to happen. You keep your letters. We keep nothing.
He closes the overlay.
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Harnoor swipes right again. A journal screen — cream background (#fcfaf5), Lora body text. At the top:
> Letters to Bauji
Three entries, each one a folded letter icon that expands on tap:
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Letter 1 — May 10
> Bauji, I kept thinking about the well behind Naani's house in Amritsar today. You used to tell me the water from that well tasted different than anything in the city — that it had memory in it. I finally understand what you meant. Some places hold the people who stood in them. I felt you in the kitchen today when Maa made sarson da saag. I don't know where you go, but you were there.
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Letter 2 — May 11
> I went to close a deal today that would've made you laugh. Big room, city guys in nice suits, and I sat there thinking: Bauji would've been quiet for five minutes and then said the one sentence that ended the whole conversation. You never wasted words. I'm still learning that. I talked too much. I'll do better.
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Letter 3 — May 13
> The halwa from the mithai shop on Kapurthala Road — do you remember? You used to bring back one box every time you visited Jalandhar. Maa found a photo of us eating it at the kitchen table, you with that look on your face like you were pretending not to enjoy it, but you always took the biggest piece. I bought halwa today. It wasn't the same. Nothing is the same. But it was still sweet.
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At the bottom, a gold text button:
> + Write him a letter
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Harnoor swipes right one final time. The screen is darker — deep slate, almost black at the edges.
In the center, a gold candle flame. Below it:
> On day 30 — June 12 — we'll burn this together.
In smaller Inter:
> You'll read your letters aloud.
> The room will listen.
> Then the flame goes out.
> You keep everything you wrote.
> We keep nothing.
At the bottom, barely visible:
> Come back tomorrow.
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<audio> tag