The Living Story Company
The Lighthouse
Landfall
Copperheart
Driftwood
My Robot Friend
In VR
DAY 1
DAY 2
DAY 3
DAY 5
DAY 6
DAY 7
DAY 8
DAY 9
DAY 12
DAY 13
DAY 15
DAY 16
DAY 17
DAY 19
DAY 20
DAY 21
DAY 23
DAY 25
DAY 26
DAY 27
DAY 28
DAY 29
DAY 31
DAY 32
DAY 33
DAY 35
Every day becomes a page of your book.
My Landfall Story opens like a book — a hinged cover with your island, its title and your name on it. Inside: the contents, five acts; a chapter a week; a page a day, written each night from what the day recorded, with every piece that day made on it and “Put it on Home ›” beside each one.
It is yours to keep, and yours to take: to a doctor, to a therapist, or nowhere at all. And the Library is where the tools live after their day: each one reads the days you have already kept, so the tool you learned on day eight still works with your own data on day eight hundred.
Every piece of the day, kept as a page.
Put it on Home ›Blue is on every page.
Every day opens on her white page. She becomes the thing the day is about, writes the question in her own hand, and asks your name — then keeps it. L.A.N.C.E. and Chip tell the story around her.
The eight parts of a life, one at a time.
Day two, you rate eight parts of your life — she turns into each one as you reach it, and its name is written up behind her, in a different hand every time.
What made you open this today?
Day two’s question, in her words. Every question after it arrives written on the white.
“What do I call you?”
Her own voice says it from then on — rendered on your phone, kept on your phone — and the cover of your book carries the answer.
L.A.N.C.E.A pompous machine tells the story.
He redefines his own acronym every day and means it every time. Certain, funny, and wrong about people in the way of someone who has only ever been the one helping.
CHIPA kind one keeps it yours.
Chip is the reason a hard day still feels like yours. The story opens on a short film you can skip, and runs beside the work after that.
Small enough to keep on your worst day.
On day three you choose an egg. It hatches and grows — Awareness, Insight, Intention, Purpose. It only ever grows. From day six it walks the pages of your book beside you: its stage names what it can do, and its mood is a record, read without blame.
Your island, in your hand.
The island is a sculpted model a person turns with a finger. Home’s board, the journey map and the Door all turn the same island, and its places light in the colours of the days kept there. On day two you rate eight parts of your life and the island takes its first colour; after that every day leaves its own small mark on the place it fed, and a goal plants a flag. Its marks only ever add up.
The island across time.
Week two’s close opens the oldest island, and week four’s the village. On the last day, a person walks it back through its ages.
It wears the day’s light, and the weather you said you were in.
Two of its days, in motion.
The waterfalls on day thirty, and the storm wave passing the lighthouse on day thirty-one, as they play in Landfall.
The island, around you.
The days as a trail around the island, gold where they are done and the next one glowing. Your check-ins as a sky overhead. Step into the day’s ring and do it right there.
Landfall in VR is its own world, $19.99 a month, on a Quest 3 or any WebXR browser.
Every tool its own exhibit.
Real sculpted objects, thick paint running down the white, and twenty of the tools keep a painting of their own that is grey until you have done something in it. Scroll the wall — each one takes its colour as you reach it, the way it does in the app.
Sculpted, not drawn.
105 tools have a sculpted icon and 85 of those are real 3-D models, lit and photographed. Ten of them are here.
Every screen here is the running app.
Every screen below is a photograph of the running app.
Day thirty-five. You sign it.
Five weeks earlier the island was grey. It filled the way you filled it — a place at a time, by the things you actually did.
- Your island, signed and dated. The whole picture, in colour, with your name on it. Keep it, print it, set it as your lock screen.
- Both logs open together. Yours, and his — the private one he kept about you for thirty-five days, in his own hand.
- The letter you wrote on day two. Sealed until the last week, then opened — in your own words about who you were when you arrived.
- Every painting you uncovered. Twenty tools keep one. Each hangs in colour for exactly as much work as went into it.
- Your book, whole. The last chapter is written from all of it, and it ends on the word you chose on day seven.
- Your words stay on your phone. Connect a therapist and you choose, tool by tool, what they receive.
- The boat is at the pier. It waits there, and it is yours to take whenever you like.
Every new person meets a film first.
The island, the storm clearing to sun, L.A.N.C.E.’s welcome, and the name. About two minutes, all of it skippable, painted in the house impasto and voiced by the cast. It plays from Landfall’s own door.
$19.99 a month. Yours.
Bought by you, for you. It pairs with a therapist’s Lighthouse if they run one, and it works just as well on its own.
$19.99
a month · the person. Bought by the person, for the person. The 35 course tools are free inside it.
$49.99
a month · their Lighthouse seat. Three paired clients subscribed and the seat is half price; five, and it is free.
Step ashore today.
Landfall opens in your browser: the opening film, then day one.