Lock your memories, messages, and love to be delivered at the perfect moment.
Because some words are worth waiting for.
"When my father passed away in Slovenia, I was 2,000 kilometers away in Germany. By the time I arrived, everything was already over. No goodbye. No last words."
"Three months later, I discovered he had recorded a video message for me, stored in a Time Capsule. 'Son, if you're watching this, I'm no longer there. But I want you to know: I was always proud of you.'"
That video gave me the closure I never thought I'd have.
Each capsule follows the same path, from the first word to the day it opens.
Give the capsule a name and a message. Add a photo, a video, a voice note or a document to seal inside it.
A birthday, an anniversary, a distant year. Days, months or decades, exactly when you decide.
Send it to one person, several, or a whole circle. Leave a window open so they can add their own pieces before it seals.
When the window ends the capsule seals. Nothing more goes in or out until the day it was made for.
🔐 Sealed means sealed. Your words are encrypted at rest with AES-256. Nobody can read them in the database, and every sealed capsule carries a SHA-256 fingerprint, so tampering would show. They are decrypted only for you and, on the day you chose, for the people you chose.
Some things are too early to say and too important to lose. A capsule holds them until their moment.
A mother writes to her daughter every year, what she looked like at four, the song she wouldn't stop singing at seven, what her laugh did to a hard day. Photos, a voice note, a letter. Sealed until the morning of her eighteenth birthday, when all of it arrives at once.
One friend creates it and invites the whole group. For one week the capsule stands open, everyone drops in a message, a photo from the trip, a running joke, a prediction about who they'll all be. Then it seals itself, and waits for the reunion ten years out.
Some words are too heavy for the day they're written. A grandfather records the stories nobody thought to ask for, how he met her, what he'd do differently, what he hopes for each of them by name. The capsule opens a year later, when the family is ready to hear his voice again.
"For my daughter's first birthday I started a capsule and invited both grandmothers. For one week they dropped in photos, voice messages, even a recipe written by hand."
"Then it sealed itself. It opens the morning she turns eighteen, and one of those voices is no longer with us. She will still get to hear it, exactly when it matters most."
Seventeen years from now, that week will be priceless.
"Eleven of us went to the coast every summer for twenty years. When we scattered across three countries, someone said: let's seal it all in one capsule."
"For a week everyone dropped in photos, inside jokes and one prediction about where we'd all be. It opens at our reunion, ten years from now."
We already know it will be the best thing we ever read together.
The words themselves, up to twenty thousand characters of exactly what you want them to read.
A voice carries what text can't. Record it once; it plays back on the day, unchanged.
A birthday toast, a message to a future graduate, the view from a day you never want to lose.
The pictures that will mean more later than they do now.
A recipe in their handwriting, a family history, instructions, a will of small wishes.
Files that matter, the digital things a family would otherwise lose track of.
Write them now, while they're true and close. Seal them. Let time carry them to the right morning.