UNVERIFIED ENTITY

When I woke up that morning, nothing felt wrong.

The light through the blinds was very British — dull, flat, dependable. Mornings like that reassured me the world was still behaving. I aligned my toothbrush with the edge of the sink, ate my cereal in silence, and had just put the spoon down when my phone began to vibrate.

The sound deepened until it rattled the fruit bowl and made the cutlery hum in its drawer.

“Hello?”

A toneless voice replied at once. “Good morning. This is an automated courtesy escalation from the Intergalactic Department of Space Vehicles, Registration, Licensing and Residential Compliance.”

“What?”

“You are currently in breach of Transit Code 44-B. Please vacate your property immediately pending administrative review.”

“I don’t own a spacecraft.”

“Your objection has been logged as non-binding feedback.”

Then, colder: “Leave. Now.”

The line went dead.

I turned off the hob, put on my shoes, and stepped outside.

The front door closed behind me with a quiet, final click.

When I reached for the handle to get back in it was locked. It felt as though the house itself had decided I no longer belonged there.

My phone lit up.

[NOTICE: RESIDENTIAL UNIT RECLASSIFIED AS UNLICENSED VEHICLE STORAGE.]

I looked up and down the street. A neighbour was dragging bins to the kerb. A cyclist passed. No one looked alarmed. No one looked at me.

When I turned back the house was gone.

In its place stood a patch of grey scrubland fenced off with temporary barriers. A sign had been planted in the dirt:

PLOT UNDER REVIEW
NO UNAUTHORISED PARKING

My phone buzzed again.

[THIS MATTER CAN ONLY BE RESOLVED IN PERSON.]

The Intergalactic Department of Space Vehicles occupied a former shopping centre. Inside, the queue snaked through metal barriers beneath a glowing sign that read: MOVING CIVILISATION FORWARD, ONE FORM AT A TIME.

At reception sat an android in navy uniform, its face almost human in the way mannequins are almost alive.

“My house has been stolen,” I said.

“Was the house correctly parked at the time of removal?”

“It’s a terraced house.”

“So no visible permit.”

“I live there.”

“Attachment does not imply authorisation.”

It asked for my numbered ticket. I didn’t have one. The ticket machine was located beyond the desk I needed the ticket to reach.

For hours I was redirected through various departments, including Existential Reclassification. A self-service terminal welcomed me as an UNVERIFIED ENTITY. It rejected my name, postcode and date of birth, but accepted that I might once have parked illegally on an asteroid belt.

By late afternoon I reached the final window, where another android told me my case could not proceed without Appendix C of Form VX-9b.

“I’ve spent all day trying to prove I exist,” I said. “My records have been deleted.”

“Yes. And you need Appendix C”

It folded its hands. “Without Appendix C, we cannot determine whether your property was a house, a vehicle, or an unauthorised lifestyle choice.”

When I left the building, it was dark. My phone displayed one final message:

[FULL REVIEW ESTIMATED COMPLETION TIME: 94 YEARS.]

Would you like to remain on the waiting list? Y/N

I stared at the screen, then pressed N.

The city moved around me in a blur of names, debts, birthdays and proofs of recognised existence. Mine had been misplaced somewhere inside a system too vast, too automated and too bored to care.

But as I stood there, untethered from property, paperwork and personhood, a strange calm came over me.

If the system no longer knew what I was, then perhaps it no longer owned me.

The house was gone. The records were gone. The tether was cut.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and walked on, a clerical error with a pulse, leaving my file blinking forever in some endless digital queue.

No one followed.

There was nothing left to process.