Halls and cabinets
A hall for each collection, cabinets inside. Records, books, coins, cans, figurines, magnets, stamps and model cars come with their own card fields; your own hall takes any fields you like.
Stillcraft / Apps / Cabinet of Curiosities
Cabinet of Curiosities is for people who collect something odd: cans, crocodiles, records, coins, fridge magnets. Each collection gets its own hall with cabinets, and every thing gets a card: photos, an inventory number, where it came from, when and for how much, where it is kept and what you remember about it. Photograph a thing with the phone's camera or pick a dozen from the gallery, and the app cuts it out of the background. Things without a story stay faded until you describe them. At a flea market, photograph a find and the app compares it with the whole collection: you have it, there are similar ones, or you don't. The museum grows with the collection, from a cabinet in the hall to a museum with a crest; every evening it asks one question about one thing, visitors come and linger at the best described things, and each week there is an exhibition to put on.
Android 9.0+ · Free · English & Русский
A hall for each collection, cabinets inside. Records, books, coins, cans, figurines, magnets, stamps and model cars come with their own card fields; your own hall takes any fields you like.
Photos, inventory number, where from, when and for how much, where it is kept, condition and story.
Photograph a thing at a flea market and the app compares it with every hall, wish list included. It runs on the phone. Long-press the icon to go straight there.
Things come in through the phone's camera or by the dozen from the gallery, and stand on the shelves cut out of the background.
A thing with an empty card stays faded. Write where it came from or what you remember, and it gets its colour back.
A series shows the places still empty. A wish list for what you're hunting and a swap fund for duplicates.
One question a day about one thing: where it came from, what you remember, where it is kept. The answer goes into its card.
A theme each week, from everything red to the old-timers, with a poster to share. Visitors linger at the best described things.








| Hall | Cabinets | Card fields |
|---|---|---|
| Records & tapes | vinyl, tapes, CDs | artist, year, label |
| Books | classics, children's, antique | author, year, publisher, binding |
| Coins & notes | coins, banknotes | country, year, denomination, metal |
| Cans & bottles | beer, soda, tea & coffee, rarities | brand, country, volume, series, year |
| Figurines | ceramics, toys, keyrings, wood | material, size, maker |
| Magnets | cities, countries, gifts | city, country, material |
| Stamps & postcards | stamps, postcards, tickets | country, year, series |
| Model cars | cars, trucks, racing | make, model, scale, maker |
Everything stays on the phone: the app has no internet permission.
JDK 17+ (Android Studio's bundled JBR works) and the Android SDK. Kotlin, Jetpack Compose, Room, DataStore; ML Kit subject segmentation cuts things out, a MediaPipe MobileNet V3 embedder compares them.
git clone https://github.com/bigdevwhale/cabinet.git
cd cabinet
./gradlew testDebugUnitTest assembleDebug
./gradlew assembleDebug -Pdemo # app.cabinet.demo: a museum of real records, coins and books
The lens compares the shape and the picture of the thing, not its text. Two coins of one year and design look the same to it, so check the card it shows: number, cabinet, where it is kept.
Yes. Settings makes a backup file with all the photos; open it on the new phone. There is also a PDF catalogue and a CSV table.
Then please tell us: Settings has buttons to report a bug or suggest an idea through the StillCraft bot.
How many Saturdays you have left, and what you'll do with them.
The mindfulness multi-tool: breathing, Wim Hof, a bell, practices and a journal.
A strict focus timer that actually blocks distractions.
Don't drift apart from the people who matter.
Quit a habit, one day at a time.
Turn your days into a quest.
A quiet place for your mind.
Intermittent fasting, made warm and simple.
Your city, hidden in mist. Walk to reveal it.
Letters to your future self. Sealed until the day comes.
Every win deserves a little praise.
Goals under a night sky: 17 methods in one app.
Earn obols with useful apps, pay Charon for the feed.
One light, many colours: choose who you are in every part of life.
Cold water, contrast showers and the sauna, tempered like steel.
Chores as spells in a wizard's tower: keep the floors bright, wake the helpers.
A pixel-art familiar that feeds on the pages you read.
Photos and clips struck into pixel-art treasure in a dragon's cave.
A film camera for the family: shoot now, see the prints tomorrow.
They grow up faster than the photos do.
A merry app about death and growing old, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.
Vows sealed with wax, and a ladder that makes them hard to break.
A scriptorium for what you learn: your own words, fading ink, and memory that holds.
About 940 Saturdays until they're eighteen. Spend them together.
A museum for what you want to remember: dig it up, clean it, put it on show.
Race your own ghost at everyday tasks: splits, medals and the Games.
Intrusive thoughts as ships: the lighthouse beam, the evening watch, forecasts checked.
A magic lantern deals the glass; parent and child make up the bedtime tale.
A date night for two on a night train: a conductor's questions, the phone as the table between you.
The same questions to your child, yourself or a grandparent, year after year, laid as a mosaic.
Your mind is a kite on a string. A few soft tugs a day bring it back to here.
There is too much music. One album a week, a whole side at a time, on a turntable or a tape deck.
There's too much to watch. So nothing gets watched. Your watchlist as a nineties video rental store.
Every date is a quest. The two of you are a party of heroes, and the phone is your game master.
A cosy lucid-dreaming trainer. In a dream, the top never falls.
A cosy pixel-art meditation tracker. Sit still, and shy animals come out.
A valve radio for falling asleep: tune into made-up stations of rain, sea and night trains, and let it drift off the air.
Five pots for everything you've never tried: sow a seed from a catalogue of new things, water it each time you go back, and when it blooms it's yours.
A fridge door for two: the shopping list, whose turn, notes, worries face down and envelopes that open only together. The phones sync at home, with no server.
A pedometer where your steps carry the village post. You are the new postman of a small village by a river, and its letters, stories and seasons go on for years.
Befriend a real tree. Every meeting is a ring: the friendship grows only from visits to the tree itself, and over a year they build up into a sawn cross-section.
Let your wishes age before you buy them. Every urge to buy goes into a bottle on the rack; when it's ripe, you open it without guilt or pour it into the barrel of your real dream.
Every walk is an assignment from the district paper. The editor wires one ordinary thing to shoot, with a twist; you bring back a frame, it's printed as a halftone, and on Sunday the week comes out as an issue.
A diary, index cards, telegrams and letters typed on a typewriter. There's no backspace that erases: a mistake is struck out or painted over and stays on the sheet, so you write slower, and more honestly.
Every shopping trip is a run. You keep a courier office of one: the household orders on the waybill, each shop learns its own shelf order, and every delivered waybill pays in brass tokens for a sign, a bicycle, a van one day.
The things of your hobbies come alive with practice. Every session lights a candle in a little pixel-art Japanese house; a guitar, a ball of yarn or a sourdough starter shivers, opens an eye, steps off the shelf as a house spirit and keeps growing for years.
A little movement all day long instead of an hour twice a week. Nine pixel-art tin toys on a shelf, each a family of movements; a minute or three of squats, balance or breathing winds one up for two hours and puts a pin in the day's music-box drum.
Make friends the way it actually works, and keep them for years. An old sea chart of your people: small sorties of courage to meet them, bridges that grow with every hour together, and fog that rolls in when you stop.
Step out of your comfort zone a little every day. Your fears become circus acts: pick what you find hard, and the bill offers three small real-life numbers a day, from warm-up to premiere — with a drum roll before and applause after.
Over a thousand evidence-graded protocols for a longer, calmer, happier life. Your body is a blueprint with eight systems; every protocol is a mod you try on yourself for 14 days, and the lab shows whether it moved anything before it enters your firmware.
Someone already lives in your flat. Find out who — and help them leave. A slow, quiet haunting on your own photos: marks in your rooms, notes in the evening, words through the static, and after two weeks one real thing left to do.
A small present every day, from your past self. You can't surprise yourself unless you forget: fill a capsule machine with little presents for future days, let the words seal, and turn the crank for one a day.
A budget kept like a detective's case file. Spending is evidence, categories are suspects with police photos, and when the clues show a pattern, a case opens: you name the motive and hand down the verdict.
A pilgrim's pass: come to a place of power, a church, a mosque, a synagogue, a spring or an old tree, sit there ten minutes without the phone, and the book gets a stamp nobody else has.
A book of hours for your own practices: the day divided into hours by the sun, a bell for each, and whatever you put into them written into an illuminated manuscript.
Be drawn one of the 117 billion people who have ever lived, and read their life in a parish register: the doors that were open, the ones that were shut, and what was left behind.
Enamel pin badges for the small deeds of a day, each with an order typed out, a rubber stamp and a fanfare. Nothing to plan and no streaks: in the evening the commission asks what happened.
Put a worry on an old brass balance as a stone, and weights with arguments go on the other pan, one by one, until it tips. 1,209 concrete worries, 15,900 weights.
A pet that lives under your bed and eats fear. Horror films and books feed it, anxious news is fast food, and your own fears it guards at night.
A bookshop of books that don't exist. Every day a customer asks for one, and you find it on the shelf by writing its title, first line and blurb.
Tarot with no bad cards. The Auntie finds the good even in Death, gives you an omen for the day and asks in the evening whether it came true.
A pocket field guide to the spirits of your real houseplants. Catch them with the camera; they live by the real sun over your town, ask you to touch the soil, grow, hatch from cuttings and fight real pests.
Eat thirty different plants in a week and repaint a fairy-tale kingdom the Gloom drained of colour. No calories, no bans.
Your limiting beliefs are a bank that keeps what you forbade yourself. Put a crew together, take the guard down and walk out with it.
Video games, board games and tabletop RPGs on one pixel shelf, with a mimic that eats what you finish.
Films and series raise a small pet in a projectionist's booth, and every film seats a spectator in your hall.
A training log where five elemental spirits keep your floating island in the sky.
A pedometer that walks you round the real world: every border a stamp, every km a coin for a train or a ship.
A calorie counter where every day is a balloon flight: land in your norm and you reach the next village and its recipe.
Sort your phone's gallery like a museum storeroom: a crate a month, one gesture per photo, and the space you free builds the museum.
A present opened layer by layer: the gift sits in the smallest figure, and every figure around it has its own lock.
A child photographs the deeds they've done, the pictures turn into golden engravings, and a week of them brews a real reward.
A running journal where every run is a patrol on the edge of the kingdom, and weather, moon, terrain and pulse decide who you meet.
Your fridge, cupboard, freezer and medicine box as a small potion shop: every product is a bottle that dims as its date nears, and every meal is a potion.
An anomaly scanner for your own city: creatures live in real places, and each comes out only to someone who solves its riddle and does its rite.
Be the postman of your own neighbourhood: real house numbers, made-up residents, mail handed over only at the door, and letters you carry between houses.
An advent calendar across the yard: a window lights each evening after the real sunset, once you've done the day's small deed, and someone in the house is leaving presents.
Chess by post: seven correspondents send a move and a little of their life, and your reply goes back with the post.
A little creature that lives inside the phone. Put the phone face down, and it goes out exploring and comes back with finds.
A wellbeing diary kept like a polar station: energy is the wind, mood is the cloud, pain is the rain.
Catch passing thoughts in two seconds and see which ones you keep coming back to.
A cozy farming game on the real map of your district: beds by the roads you walk and neighbours with stories.
A week in someone's flat abroad: notes in every corner on what to cook, watch, hear and read.
Catch the cosy moments of your day into glowing jars; six little lodgers of a pixel room eat them.
A talk by the fire with the people close to you: hold your stones together, and sparks bring the questions.
A diary of the cafés you keep coming back to: each gets a page and a sugar packet, and every cup leaves a coffee stain on the page.
Found a bug, missing a feature, or want it in your language? Tell us on GitHub.
Open an issue