Stillcraft / Apps / Fridge
Every couple already has a shared surface: the fridge door. The shopping list hangs there, and so does a note saying who takes the bins out, a “love you” on a sticky note and the kids' drawings. Fridge is that door on two phones. The phones are paired once with a QR code, and after that they compare doors on their own whenever you're both at home on the same Wi-Fi. There is no server, no account and no cloud. Each of you writes in your own ink, some things say themselves without words, and some open only together.
Android 9.0+ · Free · English & Русский
A lined notepad under a magnet. Each of you writes in your own ink, blue or red, the same on both phones, and a line crossed out is crossed in the ink of whoever did it. Staples go back to their jar and return to the list with one tap.
Each chore carries the magnet of whoever is next, and doing it passes the turn. You can ask to swap. The month's tally sits at the bottom as a plain fact, not a reproach.
A round magnet with today's weather for each of you, from sun to thunderstorm. Fridge-poetry word magnets say what's hard to say: hug me, I need some quiet, make me tea, be gentle with me today. The answer is “On my way”.
A worry hangs with its back showing. The other one sees only that there is something, and turns it over when they can really listen, not on the way out the door. You can hang one a day, for the real things.
A confession under a wax seal. It opens only with both of your fingers on the seal at the same moment, each on your own phone, with the phones together at home. Nobody can open it alone, not even the one who wrote it.
Plain notes and a heart on them, notes that show up only in the morning, and drawings with a finger on squared paper. A week on the door curls a corner and a month yellows it.
Thank-you magnets gather over the month, and every trip together gets a souvenir magnet with a photo on the back. Behind the purple magnet are your wishes: a “I'll see to it” mark on theirs is never shown to them.
Pull the chrome handle and it opens. Under the lamp is everything taken off the door, shelved by month, along with five weeks of both your weather, chores by month and every thank-you.
The two phones find each other on the home Wi-Fi and talk directly, encrypted (AES-GCM) with a key that only they know. Home is any network where they have met. Elsewhere the background hum sleeps. For when you're apart, there is an encrypted parcel file.
| What happens | |
|---|---|
| Both apps open at home | At once, in about a second. A green lamp shows you're together. |
| Background hum on, apps closed | When the phones are both at home, a few seconds after the second one joins the Wi-Fi, with a quiet notification. |
| Background hum off | The next time both apps are open on the same Wi-Fi. Nothing is lost while you wait. |
| Apart for a while | Send a parcel: the whole door as one encrypted file, through any messenger. |
JDK 17+ (Android Studio's bundled JBR works) and the Android SDK. Kotlin, Jetpack Compose, Room, DataStore, ZXing for the QR code; the fridge, the magnets, the weather and the wax seal are drawn in code. Sync lives in app/src/main/java/app/fridge/sync.
git clone https://github.com/bigdevwhale/fridge.git cd fridge ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest # the door, and two phones syncing over real sockets ./gradlew assembleDebug # app.fridge.dev, installs next to a release ./gradlew assembleDebug -Pdemo # app.fridge.demo: a door already shared with a made-up partner ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest -Prender --tests '*RenderArtScreens*' && python tools/shots.py # screenshots
No. The two phones talk to each other directly on your home network. There is no account, no cloud and nothing in between. Everything they say is encrypted with a key passed once through the QR code.
Home is any Wi-Fi network where your two phones have already met. The phone remembers the router's address and the network's address, not the Wi-Fi name and never your location. In the background it listens only there, and elsewhere it sleeps.
Whatever you hang waits and travels the moment you're both home again. If you're apart for longer, send a parcel through any messenger, and only the other phone can open it.
No. Not even the one who wrote it, alone. It takes both of you, each holding the seal on your own phone at the same moment.
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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.
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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 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.
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.
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