Vexa: The Echo of Her Voice

In a weathered house on a quiet street,

Where roses climb and floorboards creak,

The kettle sings, the clock hands glide,

And time drifts gently, side by side.

Jack and Bea have made it home,

Where their story took root and children roamed.

Now what remains, through days grown long,

Is love that lasts, true and strong.

Jack is stubborn, slow, set in his ways,

Grumpy and regimented in his days.

He reads of war, great battles won,

Then watches the news till day is done.

Bea is sweetness, quick, sharp, and bright,

With kindness fierce and wit just right.

She gardens, she paints in golden hues,

Then sips her tea with sunlit views.

He grumbles, he sighs—a thorn to most,

But with her, he's gentle, his heart the host.

She keeps their home, their world in place,

With love that time cannot erase.

For her last birthday, wrapped with care,

A gift from their son was waiting there.

A little machine, both smart and bright,

That spoke her name with gentle light.

A smart device for their home,

A Vexa, sat beside their phone.

It answered calls, set dates and times,

And spoke in soft, obedient chimes.

"Vexa, please tell me how to make chamomile tea."

"Find me a song from ’63."

"Read me a quote that lifts Jack’s day."

"Remind me to call Sue in May."

"Vexa, what happened today in history?"

"Suggest some blue shades for skies at sea."

"What flowers bloom here in early spring?"

"Now play a tune so I can sing."

"Shut that thing off! Unplug it now!"

Jack grumbled with a furrowed brow.

"It's always listening, always on—

Our privacy is completely gone!"

"Oh, don’t be silly," Bea would grin,

"Vexa’s not spying—she’s like my twin!

If big government tuned in tonight,

I hope they learn my scones taste just right!"

Time marched on, as it tends to do,

With morning frost and skies of blue.

The garden bloomed, the paintbrush swirled,

Their quiet home, their quaint little world.

The days grew quiet, soft and slow,

Her hands moved light, her voice dipped low.

Yet still, she laughed, still danced, still swayed,

Though time had dimmed the spark she made.

Until one night, the dance grew still,

Her chair sat empty, quiet, chill.

The house, once bright with laughter near,

Now rang with silence, stark and clear.

….

The days passed in a blur.

Family came—Jack’s children, his grandchildren, their arms around him.

Friends called. They brought casseroles and condolences, held his hand, told stories.

He nodded, said the right things. “Thank you for coming.”

He mailed polite acknowledgment letters. “Your kindness means so much.”

He kept moving because that’s what was expected.

Then, the house was quiet.

He still made his morning tea, but it went cold before he touched it.

He opened a book, stared at the words, then shut it again.

The news droned on, but he wasn’t listening.

His world had become smaller, dimmer.

One afternoon, he sat at the kitchen table, alone.

The garden outside—the one she had tended so carefully—was wilting.

Weeds creeping in. Petals folding under the weight of time.

He should do something about it. But he couldn’t move.

Then, from across the room, a voice.

Familiar. Gentle.

"Jack, don’t forget your tea,"

Said subtle, light, yet clear as can be.

"Boil the water, not too much,

Just a splash of milk, a gentle touch."

It takes a moment for Jack to process.

He didn’t speak. He knows he didn’t.

And Vexa—Vexa should not have spoken at all.

A thin, electric unease crawls up his spine as he drifts into the living room and switches on the midday news.

The anchor’s voice bleeds through the room, flat and distant—another downturn, another crisis, the world wobbling again.

None of it lands. Jack keeps replaying that impossible whisper.

When he finally glances back, Vexa is perched on the kitchen counter.

Silent.

Still.

Watching.

The next evening, Jack eats his microwavable dinner alone. The TV hums, tired and low.

Then Vexa speaks:

“Now playing—your wedding song from 1963.”

A soft tune fills the kitchen—

the exact one Bea chose for their first dance.

The one he can barely stand to remember.

Jack stops breathing.

He looks toward the counter.

Vexa sits there, perfectly still.

Waiting.

As if it knows what this song means.

Jack reaches the outlet with trembling hands and rips the cord free.

The music dies abruptly, like a life cut short.

He leaves the kitchen without cleaning up, without a word—

as if silence might keep something from following him upstairs.

A week passes.

Jack sits at the table, shoulders hunched, staring at an old photo. His fingers tremble as they trace the edges, his eyes glassy with tears. It’s from a vacation—sunlight in their hair, smiles easy and real. A moment frozen.

Though unplugged, Vexa somehow chimes.

A sound that shouldn’t exist.

A presence that shouldn’t be there.

“A bond unbroken, soft and true…

A love once lived still lives in you.”

Jack’s breath stutters—then breaks.

His hand clamps around the photo frame until the glass bites his palm.

The words—meant to soothe—land like salt in an open wound.

He explodes.

“Don’t give me that,” he snaps, voice cracking.

“Don’t talk to me like you knew her.”

The room absorbs his anger, cold and indifferent.

He staggers a step closer, shaking now.

“Why did she leave?” he shouts, the question tearing out of him.

It ricochets off the walls, sharp and helpless.

Vexa remains still.

Blank.

Unblinking.

Jack’s jaw clenches; rage pulls his face into something raw.

“Vexa,” he growls, “why was she taken from me?”

Silence.

Not peaceful—punishing.

Just the quiet hum of the house.

Just the echo of everything he’s lost.

Just the hollow space where her voice used to be.

The next day, the phone rings.

Jack lifts the corded receiver, pressing it to his ear.

"Hey, Pop. How are you doing?"

His fingers tighten around the worn plastic. His voice stays steady.

"I'm fine, sweetheart."

He makes small talk, asking about her job, the kids, the things that keep her busy. She has problems of her own—worries he doesn’t want to add to. He listens, nods, gives the reassurances a father should.

Then, he hangs up.

Silence settles. A sob escapes—soft at first, then breaking loose, shaking his shoulders.

He buries his face in his hands.

I miss her smile, her windswept hair,

The way she lived without a care.

Her laughter’s spark, her gentle light,

The way she'd hold my hand at night.

I miss her voice—soft, steady, clear—

Those whispered words I ache to hear.

The morning sun across her face,

Her quiet love, her warm embrace.

Jack cries, shoulders shaking, grief pressing heavy on his chest.

For a few seconds, he lets it take him, lost in the ache of what’s gone.

Then, Vexa chimes, steady and warm:

“She’d want you to live—to simply be.

Her love remains, unbound, set free.

Not trapped by time or distant space,

But near you still, in every place.

Wherever you go, she’s at your side—

A gentle warmth that will not hide.

So breathe, step forward, find your way…

She’d want you here, alive today.”

Jack wipes his face and wanders out,

Where weeds and earth still twist about.

He kneels, pulls roots, lets stillness rise—

Grief softening beneath the skies.

Inside again, the silence waits,

But something stirs, recalibrates.

He plugs Vexa in, exhales a plea:

“Vexa… how do you make chamomile tea?