Bedtime stories that end.
Seven nights, one world, an ending you choose together before the first word. Then goodnight. For children aged three to eight — and the parent doing the reading.
Seven nights, one world, an ending you choose together before the first word. Then goodnight.
The fog bell has decided to rest its voice tonight, so the whale is guiding the boats home by lamp alone.
Make a world.
Who lives there, the weather of it, what never happens, and your child's reading age — stories grow from three to eight and stop when your child outgrows them. Five minutes with both hands free; no prompt box, no writing to do.
Choose the ending.
Before the first word, you and your child pick how it all turns out. The choice is binding — the story spends seven nights earning it.
Read toward the star.
One tap opens tonight's page. The screen stays bedroom-dark, pages turn anywhere you touch, and the last screen has nothing left to tap.
Built in daylight, on the web. Read in the dark, on the phone.
A whale who keeps a lamp, a dog on the pier
No storms at sea, nothing gets lost for good
Five — sentences that like being read aloud
You build the world here — five minutes, both hands free, no prompt box. Then you both choose the ending, and the week is written toward it.
Storie is an app in two halves. The workshop lives here on the web, where worlds are made in daylight. At bedtime, one tap on the phone opens tonight’s page — bedroom-dark, pages turning anywhere you touch.
The Whale Who Kept the Light
Far below the shipping lanes, where the water forgets the sun, a whale carried a small lamp in the curve of her jaw. She had found it on a drowned ship and meant to return it — but the fish had started reading by it, and some things, once lit, are hard to put down.
Written for your child, read by you.
Each arc is written ahead for your world and your reader — preview any morning, nudge it over coffee. You read it aloud; on nights away, the app can replay a chapter in your own recorded voice. Never a synthetic narrator.
No streaks.
A missed night waits without guilt. We don't count, so you don't have to.
No feed.
Nothing is public, nothing is shared, nothing has a like count. Stories are gifts, not content.
No subscription.
Nothing renews. A story costs what it costs, once, and is yours forever.
One notification.
At most — opt-in, at dusk: the story is ready. Never anything else.
The bound book.
Every finished arc can be printed and bound — its cover plate, its seven nights, its chosen ending — for the shelf that outlives the phone.
The story tape.
Record a chapter once and it plays in your voice, pages turning along — for travel, for grandparents’ houses, for one day, much later.
The first night is free. The rest of the week is fourteen dollars.
Night one is free — make the world, choose the ending, read it tonight. If your child asks what happens next, the rest of the week costs fourteen dollars, once. The next story only exists if you ask for it.
Is the first night really free?
Yes. Make a world, choose the ending together, and read night one tonight — free. If your child asks what happens next, the rest of the week is fourteen dollars, once. Nothing renews, and the next story only exists if you ask for it.
Is it safe for my child?
Every arc is written ahead — never improvised at the bedside — inside the lines you drew when you made the world: who lives there, what never happens, your child’s reading age. You can preview any morning and nudge it over coffee.
How long is a night?
One chapter, sized for bedtime: a handful of pages read aloud, with the star on screen from the first page so you can both see how far goodnight is. The last screen has nothing left to tap.
Do I need an app?
Worlds are made here on the web, in daylight, with both hands free. Tonight’s page opens on the phone on the nightstand — in the browser tonight, and the iPhone app is on its way to the App Store. On nights away, a chapter can replay in your own recorded voice. Never a synthetic narrator.
What happens when the story ends?
It ends. Seven nights reach the ending you both chose, and the finished arc can be printed and bound, or kept as a tape in your voice. There is no feed, nothing is shared, and nothing was ever counted. The next story only exists if you ask for it.
The Whale Who Kept the Light
Far below the shipping lanes, where the water forgets the sun, a whale carried a small lamp in the curve of her jaw. She had found it on a drowned ship and meant to return it — but the fish had started reading by it, and some things, once lit, are hard to put down.