Once a year it asks. You answer in your own words, it seals them into a ring, and then it leaves you alone until this day next year.
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Thirty seconds. The whole idea, without the reading.
Different parts of a life, kept separately, because they are not the same thing and the questions should not be either. Each grows at its own pace, on its own anniversary. Your first journey is free; the other three come with the one-time purchase.
The one nobody else answers and nobody else reads. It is the only tree that can never be shared, which is exactly what makes it safe to be honest in.
Answered together, in the same room, and kept by both of you. One question, two people, and a record of what you each thought was true that year.
Everyone under one roof answering the same thing. A child answers it differently at nine than at nineteen, and the tree keeps both.
A tree for every animal in your life, however many there are. Written while they are still beside you, which is the only time it can be.
An acorn on the day you plant it. A ring for every year you come back. Six stages, thirteen years to a grown tree, and nothing you can do to hurry it.






A tree answered together belongs to everyone who answered it. Once, the app draws a code on your screen and they point their phone at it. Everything sealed so far lands on their phone, whole.
After that there is nothing to do. Next year whoever has the app open answers, on whichever phone is in someone's hand, and the moment it is sealed everyone else has it. Nobody sends anything. Nobody accepts anything.
It travels encrypted, through our relay, to an address only your phones can work out, and it is deleted the moment it is collected. We cannot open it, there is no account, and we never learn who any of you are.

Every year you answer becomes a ring. The trunk is where they are kept, and it is the part of the app you open years later.

One ring for every year of that journey. Inside is the oldest, outside is the youngest, and the clock underneath counts how long the tree has been standing.
Open a ring and read that year back question by question, in the words you used at the time. Nothing summarised and nothing tidied. A question you left blank says so, because deciding not to answer is part of the record too.
Last year stays shut until you have answered this year, so what you wrote at thirty is never edited by who you became at forty.
Pick a question and see every answer you have ever given it, oldest first. Ten of them come round every single year, so a decade later they read as one continuous line.
Year by year you never notice yourself change. Side by side, it is the only thing on the page.
There is no account to make, no server holding your answers and nothing to sign in to. We are not being careful with your data. We do not have it.
No analytics, no advertising, no tracking. The app reaches the outside world for three things only: checking with Apple, through RevenueCat, whether you have bought it; carrying a sealed year to the other phones on a tree you have chosen to share, encrypted so we cannot open it; and an anonymous fault report, which you can switch off. The privacy policy lists exactly what each one sends. Nobody can ask us to hand your record over, because there is nothing on our side to hand over.
Underneath the trees are your foundations: what you love, what you cannot stand, what you believe, what steadies you. Not a yearly ritual but a slower one.
Held open all year and changed whenever you want, with the whole history of every change kept. An answer you held at twenty five and released at thirty is part of the record too, and the app remembers when it moved.
A tree somebody shares with you counts as your free one if you have not started one yet. A second tree, shared or started, comes with the purchase.