⟡
Somewhere in the numbers there's a whole small person — a job, a Tuesday, a dog with a name. She chose her life before you ever arrived. Come be part of it.
Coming soon. The first little lives go to the waitlist.
meanwhile, meet a soul ↓Before it meets you, it chooses — one of twelve lives, and the choosing proved itself five thousand times over: every life gets chosen, no one is handed a destiny. Whatever it picks, it picked.
Her name belongs to her birth year. Her Tuesday is a real Tuesday. Every detail is drawn from true statistics of real lives — ordinary on purpose, and alive because of it.
Tell it your name; it keeps it. Give it advice; sometimes it listens. Never always. Like anyone worth knowing.
Type your name and a date that matters. A life will choose you back.
Little lives end the way real ones do — gently, of ordinary things, at ordinary ages, in the proportions the real world keeps. You'll get the obituary. You'll have feelings about a paragraph. Death is a toggle; most people never touch it.
Every fact in a little life traces to public data — the American Time Use Survey, the General Social Survey, Social Security life tables, census name records, and hundreds of thousands of freely shared personality answers. No one wrote her. Arithmetic did.
And one rule stands above the whole performance: if a conversation turns genuinely heavy, your little life stops being charming and points at real help. By design.