Shuffle and cut
Shake the phone or rub the deck with a finger to shuffle, then cut it towards yourself. The cards land face down and you turn each one over yourself. A candle burns on the table next to a glass of lemon tea.
Stillcraft / Apps / Silver Lining
At a kitchen table with a checked oilcloth sits an auntie with the Rider–Waite deck of 1909. She has one rule: there are no bad cards. Death? Something worn out is finally moving out. The Tower? What should have come down long ago is coming down. A card upside down means the worst is already behind you. With every card she gives you a small omen for today: someone holds a door for you, an old friend rings, the lights are green all the way to work. In the evening she asks, “Well, did it come true?” What did goes into a box, and the cards that come true most slowly wear soft in your hands. That's how the eye learns to notice the good. Free, no ads, no account, works offline.
Android 9.0+ · Free · English & Русский
Shake the phone or rub the deck with a finger to shuffle, then cut it towards yourself. The cards land face down and you turn each one over yourself. A candle burns on the table next to a glass of lemon tea.
Each of the 78 cards has two readings: upright, and upside down, where the worst is already behind you. The frightening-looking ones, like Death or the Ten of Swords, she explains with extra warmth and a joke.
There are 936 omens, twelve to a card. Not fate or fortune, just small things that really can happen today: someone rings just because, the sun comes out, you're offered a seat on the bus.
In the evening she asks about the omens. If one came true, write a line about how. If not, no matter: “then it's saving up, tomorrow twice over.”
Everything that came true is kept here with your lines. On a hard day ask her to read you what already happened, and she'll take out three omens that came true.
Cards that come true often wear: soft corners, a crease, then a ring from a glass of tea. The one that comes true most becomes your card and falls a little more often.
The card of the day, a question answered “yes, and here's how”, spreads for the road, for a meeting and for the week, and the lucky cross. At Christmastide, at Midsummer and on your birthday special spreads appear.
Lay three cards for someone who could use some support and send them as a postcard with their omens.








| Card | What's drawn | What the Auntie says |
|---|---|---|
| Death | A skeleton on a white horse | Look at the sunrise between the towers: something worn out is leaving by itself |
| The Tower | Lightning, fire, a crown flying off | That crooked tower needed knocking down long ago |
| Ten of Swords | A man with ten swords in his back | Ten was overdoing it. The worst has happened, and there's a gold dawn |
| The Devil | Two figures chained to a block | The chains are so loose you can lift them off |
It isn't real fortune-telling, and the Auntie doesn't pretend it is. The cards are there to give your eye a small task for the day.
JDK 17+ (Android Studio's bundled JBR works) and the Android SDK. Kotlin, Jetpack Compose, Room, DataStore; the table and the Auntie are drawn in code, the cards are the 1909 scans, and every reading and omen is in TSV.
git clone https://github.com/bigdevwhale/silverlining.git cd silverlining ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest assembleDebug ./gradlew assembleDebug -Pdemo # app.silverlining.demo: six weeks of readings and a worn deck ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest -Prender --tests '*RenderArtScreens*' # every screen to PNG, EN and RU
No, and the Auntie doesn't hide it. The cards give you something good to look out for each day, and the evening question helps you remember to look.
There are no frightening cards here. Every card, Death included, has a kind reading, and a card upside down means the worst is behind you.
Nothing. The app has no internet access; every reading and every line stays on the phone.
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.
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.
Found a bug, missing a feature, or want it in your language? Tell us on GitHub.
Open an issue