The Password Is Probably “Password123”

The system requires proof that I am myself,
a sequence of questions generated years ago
by a person who has since been deleted
from the account settings.

Mother's maiden name. First school attended.
Name of the childhood pet.
The address of a house sold decades ago,
reduced to mandatory characters in a field.

Three attempts remaining.

The database retains the date of creation,
the encrypted answer, the recovery address,
a record of every failed entrance,
each entry classified as suspicious activity
by software incapable of knowing suspicion.

PASSWORD RESET REQUESTED

Enter the code sent to your registered device,
except the device has been replaced,
the number belongs to another subscriber,
and the email account disappeared
during a provider merger twelve years ago.

THIS REQUEST HAS EXPIRED.

The old accounts accumulate in digital storage,
their contents preserved by companies
that have forgotten why they collected them,
usernames attached to services that folded,
private histories waiting for an authorized visitor.

First concert.
Favorite teacher.
Street where you grew up.

The teacher's name survives in an obituary,
the concert ticket sits among discarded papers,
the street has been renamed by the city,
and the security form rejects every answer
I can retrieve from the available records.

ANSWER INCORRECT.

Somewhere in the archive, a version of me
still knows the secret I invented,
still shops at stores that have closed,
still belongs to forums emptied of members,
still maintains an account for a service
that ceased operating before its final bill.

The password manager offers a list of entries
with dates, symbols, and abbreviated notes,
each credential preserved for a future login
that has become impossible to complete,
each recovery method leading back
to another account requiring recovery.

I enter a phrase I intend to remember,
add a number unrelated to any birthday,
replace a letter with a permitted symbol,
then save the result to a protected vault
whose master password escapes me
during the next scheduled security check.

YOUR IDENTITY COULD NOT BE VERIFIED.

The message appears in a clean white box,
its words reviewed for maximum clarity,
its instructions available in forty languages,
its appeal process routed through automated help
where every answer produces another question.

I have become the owner of accounts
that refuse to acknowledge their owner,
a name attached to encrypted transactions,
an email address awaiting a code,
a collection of failed attempts preserved
long after the person who made them
has forgotten what the account contained.