Fill the machine
A small joy, a thing to buy, an outing, a rare golden one you save up for, or just a note. Tag when it would rather fall: morning, evening, Friday, the weekend, sun, rain, grey sky, snow.
Stillcraft / Apps / Capsule
Capsule is a red capsule vending machine with a glass dome that you fill with little presents for future days: a song from childhood, a pastry from that bakery, the cinema alone, a note saying “you're doing fine”. A day later your words are sealed and the capsule is lost among the others, so you forget what's inside. One coin a day, a full turn of the crank, and a capsule rolls into the tray; twist the lid and the paper unrolls with the present, the day you put it in and what the weather was. Free, no ads, no account, no internet.
Android 9.0+ · Free · English & Русский
A small joy, a thing to buy, an outing, a rare golden one you save up for, or just a note. Tag when it would rather fall: morning, evening, Friday, the weekend, sun, rain, grey sky, snow.
For a day you can still read and take back what you put in; then the words are sealed. Only the colour of the shell tells the kind, and that's what makes the surprise real.
Tap the slot and turn the crank a full round clockwise: the ratchet clicks, the capsules jump, one drops into the tray. The purse keeps up to three coins for the days you miss.
Look out of the window and mark the weather: capsules tagged for today fall more often, yours more often than the factory's, gold rarely. Things to buy keep to a monthly limit you set.
Buy a little something, hide it at home, leave a riddle and a photo of the place taken with the phone's own camera. Weeks later the riddle falls out; the photo opens only if you haven't found it in three days.
Capsules tagged “hard day” are kept back from the crank. The dark button under the machine gives one of them, once a day, without a coin.
Now and then a capsule drops on its own at a random moment of the day, with one quiet notification. Not today? Two swaps a week put a capsule back into the dome.
Each capsule holds a little figure. Do the present, close it with one word, and it stands on the shelf: 32 figures in four series (kitchen garden, forest, sea, sky), gold ones from golden capsules. The papers go into an album by month.







| Shell | Kind | For example |
|---|---|---|
| Teal | Small joy | Five free minutes: a song from childhood, a walk without the phone |
| Orange | Thing | A pastry from that bakery; keeps to your monthly limit |
| Blue | Outing | The cinema alone, a market without a list |
| Gold | Golden | Something you save up for; falls rarely |
| Lilac | Note | “You're doing fine” |
| Pink | Hard day | Kept back for the dark button, once a day, no coin |
165 ready-made factory capsules in English and Russian top the dome up when it runs low, so there's a surprise before you fill it. Switch them off in settings to keep only your own.
JDK 17+ (Android Studio's bundled JBR works) and the Android SDK. Kotlin, Jetpack Compose, DataStore, WorkManager; the machine, its physics and the 32 figures are drawn in code, and the sounds are synthesised.
git clone https://github.com/bigdevwhale/capsule.git cd capsule ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest assembleDebug ./gradlew assembleDebug -Pdemo # app.capsule.demo: six weeks of capsules opened ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest -Prender --tests '*RenderArt*' # the machine, the figures and every screen to PNG
By forgetting. A day after you put a present in, the words are sealed and the capsule is lost in the dome; weeks later you no longer remember which one is which. The factory batch mixes in surprises you didn't write at all.
The purse keeps up to three coins, so you can turn the crank for the days you missed.
Things to buy keep to a monthly limit you set; the rest wait for next month. Most capsules are small joys, outings and notes that cost nothing.
No. The app has no internet permission at all; your presents, papers and hiding-place photos stay on the phone.
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A date night for two on a night train: a conductor's questions, the phone as the table between you.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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