焚I
The burn
At zero, the whole scene catches and burns to ash — completely, edge to edge. The hour you spent is gone, and you watch it go. Nothing about it is undoable, and that is the point.
子 The first idea
Time does not pass at one speed. So choose its pace — turn the paper sun, and the horizon turns with it.
Every session in Chronos is thirty in-app minutes. What changes is how many real minutes those thirty take. You decide by turning a paper-sun dial whose outer edge is the horizon itself: the outer ring sets the hour of the day, the inner ring sets the pace.
Pull the pace toward fire and the hour runs hot and quick — five real minutes, all urgency. Let it fall toward calm and the same thirty minutes stretch to forty-five, slow and unhurried. The instrument starts the moment you let go, the way a wound mechanical timer does.
5min
Fire. Thirty in-app minutes burn past in five real ones.
30min
True. Real time and in-app time keep the same step.
45min
Calm. The same thirty minutes drawn long and slow.
卯 The living world
Twelve hand-painted hours, and a world that is quietly alive.
The world is not a backdrop. It keeps the hour with you.
The sun and moon cross the sky on a true celestial arc. Brush the screen and wind moves through the grass. Tap a bird and it banks away; tap the water and it rings outward. On a far cliff, eagles court, brood, and hatch. Two boats cross an evening sea. None of it asks for your attention — it simply lives, the way weather does.
酉 The end of the hour
When the hour ends, it does not simply stop. It burns.
秤II
The weighing
Then you weigh what the hour held. One needle swings across five kinds of hour — deep work, reading, moving, drifting, and more — and you settle it where the truth sits. If you like, you write a single line beneath it. No more than one.
印III
The seal 落印
Last, you press the seal. 落印 — the seal falls — and the hour is closed and kept. What burned is not recoverable; what you weighed is yours to keep, set down once and for good.
辰 Where the hours go
Your history is not a spreadsheet. It is an orchard.
Every day grows a tree. Every sealed session hangs from it as a fruit. Weekends stand in terracotta. You scroll back not through rows and totals but through your own seasons — a slow walk past the hours you weighed and kept.
A weekday tree
A weekend, in terracotta
A sealed fruit
亥 Sound & silence
Every sound is made from pure math.
There are no recordings in Chronos, and no loops. Wind, water, the ring of a tapped surface, the call of a bird — each is synthesized live from arithmetic, the moment you need it. Nothing repeats exactly, because nothing was ever recorded to repeat. It is quiet on purpose.
It stays on your phone.
- No account, ever. Nothing to sign into.
- No ads, no trackers, no analytics.
- No network requests. Nothing leaves the device.
- Your sessions, your orchard, your written lines — all kept only on your phone.
時
You are the god of your own hour.
An hour, painted and weighed. Paper, ink, terracotta — an instrument, not an app.
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