Not what happened, that's in the photos. But what it was like. Who was there. What dad was thinking and what grandma said. You write it together. We turn it into one printed book at the end of the year.
Mum writes on Sunday, dad on Wednesday night, grandma after a visit. A photo, a few lines, done.
At the end of the month, YearChapter brings all your moments together into one readable chapter. In your own words. No AI-speak.
Twelve chapters, linen-bound. Nothing to select. No empty pages. Everything that mattered is there.
Not just a memory for you later, but a mirror for them later. Who they become starts with how you see them.
"Others see you take a photo. I see the moment after, when you stop and look at what you just did. At two you were already doing it with books: read a page, pause, then carry on. No one taught you that. It was as if you wanted to give every moment its own time. That in-between moment, that's you."
Reflection isn't a luxury. It's a voice that grows with them, even when yours changes.
When someone in your circle adds something, you get a quiet signal. No push spam, just an invitation to write together.
Bram
Everyone contributes in their own way. An honest line under an ordinary photo, that's what stays.
Your library fills itself. Every month becomes a chapter. At year-end, everything heads to the printer.
For every year of their life you capture, we plant a real tree. Not a digital one, not a symbolic one, a real one, somewhere, with roots.
Their story grows twice: between the pages of the book, and in a forest in Oregon, Madagascar or Kenya.
Here are three small prompts. One is enough. No scrolling feed, no pressure.
No daily push, no feed begging for attention. One email on the 1st of the month with three gentle prompts.
The rest of the month, add when there's something to capture, not before.
You have the people, the phone and the moments. The only thing missing is the place where it all comes together.