Your living record. Built automatically. The people you choose can ask it.
It tells you what matters, and what you’ve forgotten.
The people you choose can ask it, and get answers.
The single source of truth about you.
Most of what you know lives only in your head. The accounts, the policies, the people who handle things, what you agreed to, who to call and when.
Other people rely on this information, so they come to you. What if you’re busy? What if you can’t remember yourself?
Hand it to someone.
Tell your wife. Train a successor. Write the memo.
Now there are two points of failure instead of one.
Fill in a form.
The binder. The spreadsheet. The app with two hundred fields.
Work you have to finish, and nobody finishes.
Send a copy to whoever asks.
Export it. Attach it. Email the file to the attorney.
It works. And the copy is theirs now, for good.
We do none of them.
It builds from what you already have, the people you choose ask it directly, and the copy never leaves.
No forms. No filing. Nothing to keep up with. It reads what you already have and writes your record. Every line carrying the document it came from.
The letter came in August. The part that costs you lands in October. Nothing was ever going to remind you.
Every other product in this category begins by shipping your life to someone else’s index. Yours never leaves.
An instruction is not a boundary. Code is.
You decide who gets in, person by person, over the parts you choose.
Every time someone looks, you see it.
There should be one. It should be yours. Everything else should have to ask it.
For every person who has ever lived, this was impossible.
Your part takes a minute.