We start with the cities you lived in.
Autobiographical memory is indexed by life context: a city, a flat, a job. Amure’s first session starts there, and the memories follow.
The backdrop
An account, an address and a password: the password is what encrypts everything, and a recovery key is shown to you once. Then your cities, your homes, your studies, your jobs. A label and a year are enough, nothing is required, and the page is no longer blank.
Then Amure asks period by period: a gap in the timeline, and one question. A free-text label only you understand, two fuzzy bounds (“spring 2018” or “2018” both work), and “later” creates nothing.
Your whole timeline
Nobody has ever seen their romantic life as an object. Backdrop milestones as landmarks, relationships and time alone on equal footing, and dotted lines where something is missing. Each gap is the next question.
Sixty seconds, six entries
It’s the only recurring thing Amure asks of you. One review a week, on the current stretch or your time alone, by keyboard or by thumb.
Nothing you see later is asked of you directly: the monthly curves are drawn from these answers. A skipped week isn’t made up, and nobody holds it against you.
The monthly sitting
Six screens, from factual to charged. The page is private: once a review is closed, what the engine found stays fixed, while your answer and your line remain yours to edit.
An empty month or the month of a breakup gets a reduced mode, with no hypothesis. A month on your own is a full review.
It stays quiet more often than it speaks
Hand-written rules, versioned as data, with a real minimum number of entries, and at most one hypothesis a month. The baseline is your own distribution. No prediction, no advice, no diagnosis, and a stretch marked sensitive leaves every calculation.
On your last two relationships, you noted less often that you’d said what you thought from the fourth month on.
A rule that can’t show the entries that trigger it has no right to exist - and on a timeline with no pattern, the engine stays silent. An engine that always finds something is broken.