The weekly ritual takes five minutes.
Set your week and the app hands you one question — the right one for where you are. Write it exactly as it happened. Do not clean it up. Miss a week and the prompt will not shame you; it simply waits.
The heartbeat.
Record it. This is what your child sounded like before they had a body separate from yours.
Written now. Opened much later.
Letters to the child, sealed until an age you choose. Once sealed, the app keeps them closed — even from you. Write it while you can. The person who wrote it will not be here to write it later.
The people who love you contribute
without ever making an account.
Send a one-tap invitation. They land on a lightweight recorder — no app, no login, no data harvest. They record a voice note, a video, a letter. It arrives in your archive. You approve. They vanish.
ninth.app/c/——————
This is what your mother sees when she taps the link. No account. No download. One prompt.
Nineteen years, indexed by the
person who lived them.
Everything you make is filed by week, by contributor, by release date. Sealed letters count down in the corner. The archive continues past birth, past year one, past the first day of school. When the child turns eighteen, every seal opens on the same morning.