Meet Lintel

One card a day for the people who are your home. Lintel deals one card each morning, to two phones at once. You and the person you share a life with, a partner, a brother, a sister, or just you, hold the same words on the same day. Under the card, each of you can leave one private note. It crosses sealed, and it waits to be found. Choose how the cards speak: plain and close, or in the language of faith, anchored in 1 Corinthians 13, with one verse a day beside them. No account. No feed. No streaks. No score. It speaks up only when a note arrives, and only if you ask it to: one quiet line on the Lock Screen, never the note itself. If only one of you shows up for a while, nothing breaks and nothing keeps track. Silence is an honored answer here. Six rooms, one for each shape a life can take: a couple, one person on their own, a parent, brothers, sisters, and a room for repair that is open to everyone, always. Each room has its own deck, its own color, its own way of speaking. The room you answer for at the door is yours, free, and so is the room for repair. Most people live in one room. Some live in two. The rest of the house opens once, for one price, and nothing renews. If you want it keyed closer, offer a birthday. The Us page fills in with how the two of you are actually built, in plain words. The card itself is the same on both phones, always. Nothing you give is ever sent anywhere: there is no server of ours, and your notes travel sealed through your own iCloud, unreadable to anyone else. Both of you need an iPhone. When a card comes around again, it brings back what you both wrote under it the first time. And the days so far can be bound into one book, made on your phone, yours to keep outside the app. A card on the Lock Screen, a note underneath, a day at a time. That is the whole app, and it is enough. Built by a commercial photographer in Charleston, for the people who are his home. It turned out to be for many.