All the Formats

It's simple, it's nice

You pick a format, you fill in a small form, it becomes something beautiful for the person who opens it. That's the whole gesture, start to finish. No technical layers, no fiddling. You write a few words, you drop in a photo, you record your voice, and on the other side, your person receives a moment we've cared for so it feels made for them.

Thirteen ways of going about it, to mix however you like. There's no right formula, only yours.

Text and photo, the two free basics

The two formats every calendar starts with, free from the very first day. A text field, you type: a few words, a thought from this morning, a reason to smile, sitting plainly in the Dawn typography that gives them weight. An image, you drop it in: it fills the screen, calm, set down like in an album, with a caption and a small note before or after if you want to tell what's behind it.

Simple on purpose. Half of a beautiful calendar is made of exactly this: the right words one day, the right image the next. The market square in Lisbon, your dog asleep in a curl, and three lines that go straight to the heart.

Letter, the cinematic one

You write your text. You can add a header ("My love,"), a closing line, your signature. Or just the body, that works too.

On opening, the paper sets down on the table, slightly at an angle. The first letter writes itself in large italic, like an old drop cap. Then the words come one by one, the ink lets a few grains rise above the stroke, the commas let the sentence breathe, the periods leave a silence. At the end, your signature tilts, a wax seal sets down at the bottom, a little heart starts to beat inside it.

To keep for days that carry weight. The birthday note, the declaration, the thank-you that needed time, the apology you couldn't get out.

Gallery, several together

You drop several photos at once. They arrange themselves in a grid, two columns, clean. One click to enlarge, arrows to move between them.

For days that don't fit into a single image. A weekend, a night out, a trip, or simply all the photos you couldn't bring yourself to choose between.

Polaroid, white frame

You upload your photos, we take care of the rest. Thick white frame, slight rotation, handwritten caption underneath. It feels like the album left open on the coffee table, the memory that's been around.

For days that deserve a bit of soul. Photos that are already memories, the ones that look old before they're even printed.

Scratch, hidden under gold

You drop in a photo, or you write a few secret words and sign them. We seal it all under a fine gold foil, tinted to match the calendar's atmosphere. Your person scratches it away with a finger, and what you hid appears little by little. When almost everything is uncovered, the last of the gold lifts off on its own, in a quiet shower of sparkles.

For the days you want to turn into a small ceremony. The photo of the plane tickets, the address of the restaurant, the news you've been holding back for weeks. Some things aren't meant to be shown, they're meant to be unveiled.

Stack, print after print

You drop in your photos, we stack them into a pile of prints, like they just came back from the lab. Your person slides the top one away with a finger, and the next is waiting right underneath. Write a few words for a photo and they live on the back: a folded corner gives it away, they turn the print over, and there's your note, handwritten on cream paper.

You can even slip a print into the stack face down. Just the cream back showing, nothing written, and no way to know what's hiding there without turning it over. For the days that are really a story: a trip retold in the right order, a year in eight moments, and the photo you saved for last, waiting at the bottom of the stack.

Voice, your voice

You click, you record, it's in the calendar. Your voice, set down, no pressure. On opening, the waveform animates to the rhythm of your words, just for the pleasure of watching while listening.

More intimate than a text, less exposed than a video. For the "I love you" that comes out better out loud, the little stories you tell better than you write.

Video, in motion

You paste a YouTube, TikTok, Instagram Reel, or Vimeo link, or you upload your own video. It loads inside a careful frame, with your word before and your word after if you want to set the scene.

A filmed message, a montage of your moments, a song that makes you think of them, a scene that says it all. For what deserves to move.

Puzzle, piece by piece

You drop in a photo, pick the size of the pieces, and we cut it up and shuffle it. Your person swaps the pieces with a fingertip, and every piece that finds its place seals itself with a little flash. No one gets stuck: the puzzle always comes together, and the whole photo breathes at the end, with your caption.

For the photos that deserve to be earned. The one your person has never seen, the place that takes three pieces to recognize, the news taking shape under their fingers. The memory arrives in pieces, and they're the one who puts it back together.

Playlist, the soundtrack

You paste a Spotify link, that's it. A song, a whole album, a playlist you put together for the occasion. It embeds cleanly into the day, native player, cover art, everything's there.

Music has that slightly magic power to bring memories back without warning. Use it, put on the song that was playing in the car that night.

Story, that scrolls by

Several slides that scroll like an Instagram story. Photos or videos, swipe navigation, a Ken Burns effect that softly animates the images. You fill each slide one by one, at your pace.

Perfect for telling a day in several beats. The morning, the noon, the evening. A small story inside the story, watched in one go.

Interaction, that answers back

You ask a question, your person answers from the calendar. Their answer comes back to you, you keep it together. "What's your favorite memory of us?" "What's making you smile right now?" "If you could live one day again, which one would it be?"

The calendar becomes a conversation. Not a monologue you offer, an exchange that builds itself day after day.

Mix them however you like

Thirteen formats, that many combinations. A 100% photo calendar for those who think in images. A calendar of letters for evenings that deserve paper. A mix of everything for the undecided. Or something nobody's tried yet.

You fill it in as it comes to you, day after day. It's your story, tell it your way.

See how the whole gift works