Ember didn't start as a business idea. It started with a mother and a grandfather who we didn't ask enough questions, and then ran out of time to.
You want to sit down with your loved ones and ask about their life. And we mean really ask, not small talk at a holiday table. Then one day they're gone or their ability to remember, and the questions you meant to ask become the ones you'll never get to.
Paul lost his mother in 2022. Landin lost his grandfather in 2026. In both cases, we had one or two audio files we happened recorded with them, which we individually treasure. Those audio files were the inspiration to start Ember.
When we listen to the recordings, we think of all the questions we never asked, and what we want to ask now. How they met their spouse. What their own parents were like. How they handled hardship. What they were actually afraid of, or proud of, that they never said out loud.
We built Ember because we didn't want another family to find out too late what no one had asked.
We love AI. We use it to move faster, think clearer, and get more done (like most people building companies right now). But we believe there's a line, and Ember is built to never cross it.
Every word in an Ember archive is something your loved one actually said, in their own voice, in their own words. Ember's only job is to ask good questions and listen well. It does not smooth over a pause, fill in a gap, polish a sentence, or generate anything on their behalf. When a story is unfinished, it stays unfinished. When someone contradicts themselves, that stays too. That's not a limitation we're working around, it's the whole point. A generated version of your father's story isn't your father's story anymore, no matter how good it sounds.
We're a small team who has felt exactly what you may feel: a deep sense that there's a conversation you keep meaning to have. We built the thing we wish we had for our loved ones.