I am sipping my drink in the Dubrovnik Café and staring at passersby through one of the giant windows that grace the place. The main square in front of my table is teeming with people, most of whom are in a mad rush. And then I see a woman in her late eighties approach the window by which I am sitting. Dressed quite primly for her age, she carries herself surprisingly well. Her back is straight, and she is rather thin. But she is hardly moving. Her steps are short and hesitant. It takes her a while to come a few steps from where I am sitting, and only then I notice her vacant stare. She is barely there, I realize. “Can you remember how many bank accounts you have?” a question for the old lady suddenly forms in my mind. “More important,” I continue at a clip, “can you remember all the passwords you need to access these accounts?” Questions of this ilk come to my mind one after another until the poor old lady manages to disappear from view. Of course, it does not take me long to realize that I am actually talking to myself through the window. And across time. A couple of short decades, to be exact. Passwords, what passwords?