For someone you keep almost texting
A letter they don't have to answer.
You want to know they are okay. A text asks them to reply. This does not.
You write the letter. They type a short code. That is the whole thing.
Communication with the demand removed. No account. No analytics. No notifications. Nothing this app initiates. Silence is ordinary. Nothing here marks it.
There are no cookies. There is no cookie banner, because there is nothing to ask permission for.
A letter that stays
They open the page. The letter is already there. It does not ask how they are. They do not have to write back.
The quiet screen is also here. Opening it records nothing. Stay as long as you need. Nothing is written down.
Someone left a letter.
Type the code they gave you.
This was made to be given.
Leave a letter on this phone if you are setting it up in person. What you write stays in this browser unless you choose to send part of it.
Every house stands under some kind of sky — clear, grey, or breaking open down the middle.
The house never becomes the weather. It has some, for as long as it has it.
Still here
They weren't asked anything about you. Not your health. Not what you are going through. There was no form about you.
This is closed now.
Nothing was sent anywhere. What this app had stored in this browser has been deleted.
Hello.
This notebook is growing large. A backup bigger than 2 MB cannot be imported later, so exporting one now keeps a complete, importable copy. Saving continues as normal.
Still here
A letter
One thing that can be put down
If this is possible
If this, then that
A standing rule
Today
Saved for today
Nothing here right now.
Every one of them ended.
If you need it
Immediate support
Look one up for your country at findahelpline.com or the IASP directory.
If there is immediate danger, contact local emergency services. PassingWeather is not emergency or medical care.
Nothing to fill in
Something to read
Seven short pieces about weather. They don’t change and they don’t ask anything.
A rain gauge on a porch rail doesn’t do anything. It sits through a long dry stretch and through the storm that finally breaks it, filling only when there’s something to fill it with, empty the rest of the time. No one checks it every hour. Weeks can pass. Then someone walks by after rain and there it is, holding exactly what fell — no more, no less, no opinion about any of it.
Fog can sit on a valley for days, thick enough to swallow the tree line, and no one down in it can say when it will lift. It does not announce itself leaving. One morning the ridge is just there again, sharp at the edges, as if it had never gone anywhere. The valley remembers only the not-seeing, not the leaving.
Night does not fall on some houses and spare others. It comes down the same over the whole block, at the same hour, indifferent to what’s happening behind any particular window. Inside one house someone sleeps without waking. Inside another someone counts the hours by the sound of a passing car. The dark covers both, and asks neither what kept them up.
A road holds the shape of every truck that has ever leaned on it, and still gets driven every day like it owes nothing. Rain fills the low spots. Frost heaves the edges. None of it is repaired before morning, and morning uses the road anyway.
A front can move a hundred miles in a day, dragging rain and low pressure behind it like something it can’t put down. Then it moves on, the way fronts do, taking the rain to whatever is next in its path. The land it crossed goes on holding the water it left, long after the front itself is somewhere else entirely.
A field cut in September looks finished by December: stubble flattened by frost, ground the color of nothing. Underneath, roots hold on, undisturbed, doing slow work that has no season of its own. Nothing about the surface admits this. A field in winter keeps every root it started with.
Lightning walks a far ridgeline, too far for the sound to arrive as anything but a delayed mutter. The valley floor stays dry. Clouds drag their rain across a range the road does not climb. From here the storm is a shape on the horizon, and the ground underfoot is only the ground.
Things that happened
Receipts
A thing that happened, written down. No total and no comparison.
Things that can be put down
Small things
One of these comes up when the app opens. Tapping did-it or not-today leaves no record of which.
If this, then that
Rules
One of these comes up when the app opens. Nothing records which one, or whether it was used.
Something to put on
Sounds
Links only. Tagged for any time, the quiet screen, or a heavy day. Nothing is embedded and nothing plays itself.
This notebook
Names and support
Recipient-controlled
Notes
Notes only arrive through this code. Remove it and they stop. Your notebook itself never travels the other way — not an entry, not a measurement, not a private note — and nothing here can send one. A note that isn't picked up stops existing after 60 days.
Versioned and complete
Backup and restore
A backup contains the entire private notebook in readable, unencrypted JSON. Store it accordingly. Import is previewed before replacement, and the prior notebook remains recoverable.
Optional
Device storage
This browser decides when site data can be cleared.
Destructive
Erase this station
This one-step exit removes the current notebook, recovery snapshot, and retained legacy copy from this browser. There is no confirmation. Export first if you may want it back.