A habit app that keeps you warm.
Bring one small thing a day. Mica keeps the fire through the night, and every seventh check-in the two of you forge something real for your shelf. A year of showing up becomes a room full of proof.
The whole game, in three moves.
No point systems to learn, no gardens to manage, no guilt to dodge. One small habit, one fire, one morning ritual.
Check in
Do your one small thing, then tap the card. The fire brightens and ten metal lands in the pouch. That's the whole daily ask.
The night shift
Every seventh check-in puts something half-made on the anvil. Mica works it while you sleep. She's small, but she's very good at this.
Finish it together
In the morning you strike the last blows yourself. What you make goes on your shelf, and it stays there. Nobody can take it back off.
Fifty-two things a year.
Keep your one thing daily and you'll forge about one object a week. A key. A bell. A little iron fern. By December the room tells the story of your year, in things you can point at.
Miss a day? Nothing breaks.
No dead streaks, no red numbers, no passive-aggressive notifications waiting behind the icon. A missed day renders as warm coals and a sleeping friend, and the fire relights the moment you do. This is written into our product charter, structurally: there is no screen in Mica that can shame you.
“The coals are still warm. I checked before you got here.”
Made to be a place, not a feed.
One warm room instead of dashboards. The fire is your check-in, the anvil is your streak, the shelf is your history. Everything lives in the world.
When it's hard, Mica never says “try harder.”
Tap her any time and talk. She knows your habit by name, how the week actually went, and the one lever that works on a bad day: making the ask smaller. Ten push-ups can become putting your shoes on. It still counts. It was always going to count.
Friends, without the leaderboard.
Trade a code with someone you like and their house appears on your hill. You see one thing only: their fire, lit or resting. Never their habits, never their counts, never their business. Wave at them, or leave a coal by their door. It asks for nothing back.
The bigger room.
- Ten fires instead of three, for a life with more than one thing in it
- Five times the time to talk with Mica, and she remembers your last talks
- A fire to share with a friend, each of you feeding your own side
- Two more widget looks, Dawn and Night
- Everything the free room owns stays yours forever, either way
Light your first fire tonight.
One small thing. That's the whole ask. Mica handles the rest of the night.