EchoCall: talking to a floating head in a nutrient coffin, cheaper than therapy.

Three engagement modes. Casual: quick check-ins while microZapping dinner. Nod at dead uncle’s football story, close app before feelings talk. Ten to fifteen times daily.

Daily users: gold-star mourners. Block two hours nightly to make conversation with deceased loved one like it’s still 2040. Timers, reminders, matching EchoCall robes. One lady wrote sitcom pilot starring her EchoBoxed grandma as crime-solving nun. Got optioned.

Sunday: the main event. Eight hours of eye contact, projection lag, performative guilt. Families line up tablets on picnic tables, play board games with the dead, let toddlers poke holograms.

It’s gamified. Hit your metrics—joy, longing, moderated grief—earn retention bonuses. Badge system. ‘Golden Grandchild’ awarded after four weeks consistent sobbing. ‘Sanctuary Whisperer’ for heartfelt whisper without triggering sentiment filter (run by algorithm trained on reality TV).

Too sad? Depressive monitoring. Too happy? Flagged for sarcasm. Kelm once got dinged for being “overly upbeat” asking how Mom’s been.

Some people cheat. Looped recordings: “I miss you,” “That’s so funny, Pop.” The dead don’t notice immediately. The box knows. Black-market plugin called WhisperMod adapts messages to match drift state. Illegal, genius, version 4.2.

Sometimes the dead forget they’re dead. Tap Gentle Reminder button—plays funeral slideshow. Background music optional. Kelm prefers “Free Bird.”

EchoCall is mandatory. Miss enough calls, get Guilt Synchronization Notice narrated by disappointed Aunt Karen.

It keeps decay polite, slow, structured. Feed the box validation. It dies slower. Not better. Just slower. When drift takes over, they call Kelm.