A room no one else can walk into.

You know that feeling of coming home and, without thinking, closing the door behind you. Not because you're afraid. Because inside is the part of the day that belongs to you.

Software rarely gives you that. It gives you accounts. Sync icons. Little green dots. Receipts of your own existence, sent quietly to strangers. It gives you the sensation of being read while you read.

Elba is smaller than that. It is a fence you draw around one folder, and everything inside it is scrambled the moment you close it — not by us, not by anyone you have to trust, but by your own browser, using a key that lives only in your head.

It is one file. It doesn't call home. It doesn't check a license. There is no dashboard. There is no roadmap that requires us to grow you. It was written by two people who wanted the smallest possible way to keep something private, and then stopped.

On the first of January, 2030, by its own terms, Elba stops being ours and belongs to everyone. Not disabled. Freed. Until then, you can read the whole thing in a text editor. After then, so can everyone.

Your files. Not their business.