A TIME CAPSULE FOR iOS
FLEETING
Write a letter tonight. Seal it beyond reach.
A year from now it resurfaces — for you,
and for a stranger fishing the deep.
−200M · TWILIGHT ZONE
Everything you feel today
will be gone by Friday.
Not the big days — those get photographed. The Tuesdays. The version of you that exists right now, and never will again. But some things refuse to disappear.
−600M · WHAT A CAPSULE IS
Not a note. A stamp
from a moment in time.
Every capsule carries the whole evening it was written in — the words, the weather, the song on repeat.
“First night in the new apartment. Nothing works, everything echoes, and I have never been this happy sitting on a floor.”
−1,000M · MIDNIGHT ZONE
How the deep works.
Drop a capsule
One honest message. A sentence or a confession. Add a photo, the song stuck in your head, the weather outside — then choose a year, 2027 to 2106.
It sinks beyond reach
Hold to transmit. A receipt prints, the wax stamp lands, and the capsule sinks. No one can open it early — not even you.
It lands twice
On landing day your words echo back to you — and somewhere out there, a stranger fishes your capsule out of the deep and reads about your Tuesday.
−2,500M · THE FISHING GROUNDS
While you wait,
you fish.
Cast a line into the deep and something always bites eventually — a capsule a stranger sealed years ago, surfacing for the first time. No feed. No likes. No reply. Just one honest Tuesday from someone you will never meet.
−4,000M · ABYSSAL ZONE
Meet Drift.
The last courier of a lost fleet. Born at the floor of the future, it carries what you write — down, and back. It feeds on unspent time, so write often. You are not the first to brave the dark.
−5,000M · PROOF OF SEALING
Sealing something
should feel like something.
When you transmit, Fleeting prints you a receipt — stamped in wax, timestamped, yours to keep and share.
−6,000M · HADAL ZONE
A year later, it reads
like a letter from a stranger
who knows you completely.
“You were sitting on the kitchen floor at 1am eating cereal, worried about a thing that — I promise — you will not even remember by the time you read this. It worked out. It always does.”
One year from tonight,
your words resurface.
What will they say?