A private childhood archive
One day at a time now. A real book later.
Your camera roll has the photographs. This has the childhood — every image anchored to her exact age, the things a camera cannot record written beside them, and chapters that assemble themselves while you are not looking.
Thirty days complete, then €29 once for the
whole family. Reading and export stay free forever.
iOS is coming — the same
archive, the same book.
The photographs carry the colour.
The interface is black, white and hairlines, and it stays that way on purpose. There is no accent colour and there will not be one — every colour on the screen belongs to a photograph of your child.
Month Seven · 41 photographs · 19 days kept. A day you marked as a favourite takes the full width, here and in the book.
Four things, and nothing else.
Every feature has to make one of these better. If it does none of them, it does not ship.
Capture easier
Photographs first, a line if there is one
Bring in the camera roll you already have. Nothing needs sorting into albums — the archive files every image by her age on its own.
Remember more
A photograph shows what she looked like
A line is the only way to keep what she was like. Once or twice a month a question arrives; answering it is optional and never asked twice.
Revisit better
Lookbacks, firsts, then & now
A month closes and a lookback appears. Two photographs an age apart pair themselves. History keeps only what mattered, and skips the months that held nothing.
Preserve beautifully
Chapters assemble themselves
A chapter appears the moment a month has photographs in it. Twelve of them make Year One, and Year One is a real printed book.
Two people. One archive.
Every photograph and every line keeps the mark of whoever noticed it. Outline is you, filled is them. Never colour, never initials, never a score — it survives print, greyscale and colour blindness, and it is the same pair as the app icon, so nobody has to be taught what it means.
On Sam's phone it is the other way round: the mark is always relative to whoever is holding the screen. There is no owner and no account — both copies are the archive.
No comments. No reactions. No activity feed. The archive nobody deletes is the one both parents are adding to — that is the only number worth measuring.
Today both phones pair by scanning a code in the same room. Pairing at a distance is designed and not yet built — if you are keeping an archive across two households, that is worth knowing before you buy.
Time, under your thumb.
Two photographs pair themselves by age as soon as there are two. The older one is underneath; drag it away. Nothing here explains the gesture — a gesture is discovered in the first second or it is the wrong gesture.
Eight months apart, framed the same way. The pairing is done by age, not by you.
It gets quieter as she gets older.
A six-month-old produces something notable every week. A four-year-old does not, and an archive that pretends otherwise becomes a calendar. So the grain of the record changes with her.
| Age | Library | Lookbacks | History |
|---|---|---|---|
| 0–12 months | Month One … Month Twelve | Monthly | Monthly markers, firsts, highlights |
| 12–24 months | Month Thirteen … Month Twenty-Four | Monthly | Monthly markers, firsts, highlights |
| 2 years on | Calendar months labelled by age — March 2029 · 2 years, 2 months | Half-year and birthday | Birthdays, firsts, highlights |
All of it derives from one field: the birth date. Nothing is stored that could be computed from it, so correcting the date silently re-derives the entire archive.
Once a year it finishes a book.
Not something you build — something that finishes itself. Twelve chapters close, the spreads compose from the favourites and the lines, and the only decisions left to you are the cover and dropping a spread you would rather not print.
Chapter seven
Month Seven
February – March · 41 photographs
She worked out that the dog leaves the room and comes back. Spent most of a Sunday testing it.
48 – 49
It asks once, and then never again.
€29. Once.
Not a subscription. The archive lives on your phones — every keeper holds a complete copy — so there is nothing for us to rent you. Backing it up to your own Google Drive is free and optional. A courier costs cents; a warehouse costs rent.
What it will never do.
Privacy here is invariant, not a setting. There is no feed, no public link and no discovery, and the following are not on a roadmap.
- Comments or reactions between parents
- Public sharing or a link anyone can open
- An activity feed
- AI-written captions
- Filters
- Growth charts, feeding or sleep tracking
- Streaks, badges or completion percentages
- A reminder about the days you missed
- A notification that you have not opened it in a while
- Any sound at all — you are often in a dark room
Missed days stay blank and silent. Nothing here implies obligation, because a diary that nags is a diary you stop opening.