Bryce stepped lightly along the Shoal Creek Trail as dusk settled over near-future Austin. The creek beside him whispered over stones, a ribbon of water reflecting the last orange light of the sky. Above the gentle gurgle, the city’s new levitating homes floated like lanterns tethered against the coming night. One hovered overhead now – a small dome patched together from upcycled metal and bottle-green glass – its reflection wavering in the creek below. Bryce paused and watched the water distort that bright little home, stretching and recoiling it in patterns that reminded him of memory itself.
A warm breeze carried the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of blooming evening primrose. In the canopy of pecan and oak trees lining the creek, cicadas started their crescendo, underscoring the hush of the hour. Bryce slid his hand along the limestone edge of the trail, feeling the rough, ancient shells embedded in the rock. “You never step in the same creek twice,” he mused silently, recalling an old saying. Each moment the water was new, yet the creek bed remained—a paradox of change and continuity, just like a person’s self.
Up ahead, Shoal Creek wound into downtown, where glass high-rises caught the sunset. The skyline had transformed in recent years, sprouting rooftop gardens and gleaming solar panels – and, tethered near some rooftops, a few of those self-constructing levitating domiciles bobbed gently. They were the pride of Austin’s ambitious housing initiative, homes that built themselves from reclaimed waste and hovered safely above floodplains. The physical crisis of homelessness had been declared resolved; no one slept on the cold ground or under bridges anymore. Everywhere Bryce looked, these dwellings floated like benign clouds, anchored by steel cables to parks, plazas, and rooftops.
As he walked under one, he heard laughter. A little girl peeked over the railing of the floating porch, her face lit by a string of solar fairy lights wrapped around the dwelling’s frame. “Hi there!” she called to Bryce. Her mother appeared behind her, smiling apologetically at the stranger below. Bryce waved and grinned.
The sight of a family secure in their buoyant home gave him a pang of joy edged with longing. Safe, tangible homes for all — it had been a dream for so long. And yet… why did he still feel this ache?
Bryce continued on, the creek guiding him like a familiar memory. He remembered the Austin of a decade ago, when tents and makeshift camps dotted this creek’s banks. He remembered cold nights when he himself had huddled under the 12th Street bridge, just a few miles upstream, listening to the water and wishing for a miracle.
That miracle had come, at least in part. Now Bryce lived in a comfortable apartment—though he spent more time wandering these trails than inside four walls. He brushed a hand through his sandy hair and adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag, where a portable holo-projector – his storyteller’s toolkit – bumped against his hip.
At a bend in the creek, Bryce nearly tripped over a tangle of roots. He stumbled and caught himself on the trunk of a bald cypress that leaned over the water. The tree’s exposed roots, like gnarled fingers, knuckled into the stream. He took a breath, steadying himself.
A great blue heron standing in the shallows startled at his sudden movement and flew a few yards downstream, landing gracefully again among the reeds. Bryce watched its wide wings send ripples across the surface. He envied the bird’s poise. I’m as jumpy as ever, he thought.
The day was dimming further, twilight deepening to a velvety blue. Downtown’s lights blinked on in the distance, and the first stars pricked through the sky. Bryce’s destination was not a place, but a state of mind—a sense of clarity he hoped the walk would bring. Lately, in his work as an immersive storyteller, he’d been grappling with doubt.
The new media project he was developing sat heavy in his bag in the form of that holo-projector and countless lines of experimental code. It was a piece about recursion and memory, about revisiting one’s own story over and over until its darkest chapters lost their power. His aim was to help others find self-acceptance by literally rewriting the emotional script of their lives. A lofty goal, one not easily understood by everyone.
From across the creek, Bryce heard voices. Two men were conversing on a bench beneath a streetlamp that cast an amber cone of light. As he drew nearer, their words became clear.
“I’m telling you, man, it’s solved. Solved!” one man was saying emphatically. He wore the uniform of a city maintenance worker—navy blue with reflective stripes—likely on break. “Look around. Nobody sleeping rough out here no more. City did it. Floating houses for everyone who needed one. You remember what it was like? Tents everywhere, people suffering… Now, zero. We did it.”
The other man, older and wearing a threadbare jacket despite the warmth, shook his head. “Physically, sure,” he replied. “Roof over everyone’s head, okay. And it’s a beautiful thing, I agree. But have you talked to folks who moved into those pods?” He gestured upwards where one of the levitating homes hovered, tethered to a concrete footing near the trail. Its hull, a patchwork of reclaimed wood and salvaged plastic, glinted softly. “Some of ’em lived decades on the street or in trauma. They’re happy to be safe, but they ain’t exactly home on the inside. You can’t fix that with four walls, even if those walls float.”
The maintenance worker frowned. “What do you mean, not home on the inside?”
The older man searched for words. “It’s like… you ever been in a house but felt you didn’t belong there? Like you were still out in the cold, looking through the window? A lot of folks feel that way inside their own skin. Emotional homelessness. They finally got a house, but their heart…” He thumped his chest. “…their heart’s still wandering.”
Bryce had stopped, pretending to tie his shoe, eavesdropping from behind the cover of crepe myrtles.
The worker snorted. “Sounds like some psychology mumbo-jumbo. You saying all this—the city’s effort, the tax dollars—didn’t matter?”
“Of course it mattered,” the older man said, voice gentle. “It saved lives. But there’s more work. Different kind of work.”
“Ha! Tell that to the mayor. They’re already talking about our city as if it’s utopia now.” The maintenance man stood, stretching. “I get what you’re saying, Joe, but some folks are never satisfied. There’s always gonna be something to fix. At least now people ain’t dying on the streets. I’d call that good enough for one lifetime.” He patted his friend’s shoulder. “Anyway, break’s over. See you around.” With that, he trudged off, toolbox clanking at his side.
The older man—Joe—watched him go, then sighed and looked toward the creek. Bryce felt a kinship with that weary sigh. He stepped forward out of the shadows. “Evening,” he said softly.
Joe turned, a bit surprised but nodding in greeting. “Evening. Nice night for a stroll.”
“It is,” Bryce replied. He hesitated, then added, “I couldn’t help but overhear. What you said about hearts still wandering… that was beautifully put.”
Joe squinted at him through the dusk. He had kind eyes etched by years of sun and hardship. “Thanks. I was just speaking plain truth. Lived it myself.” He scooted over on the bench, offering Bryce a seat.
Bryce sat. The wood of the bench was warm, holding the last of the day’s heat. Across the creek, a firefly winked above the water. “You lived on the street too?” Bryce ventured.
Joe nodded. “Seven years. Me and my brother. This was maybe fifteen years back. I lost him to an overdose eventually. After that… I was lost too, even after I got into housing.” He gestured vaguely toward the nearest floating home overhead. “These came too late for him. For me, they sure help—I ain’t ungrateful—but sometimes I wake up and don’t know where I am, like I expect to be under a bridge again. Takes me a minute to feel… real.” He tapped his temple. “Up here. Memory’s a tricky thing.”
Bryce felt a pang of empathy. Normally reserved, he found himself opening up in return. “I… I was on the streets for a couple years in my twenties,” he admitted. “Down by this very creek. It was before the new homes program. A shelter finally helped me get on my feet, but…” He swallowed, the old shame and pain rising in his throat unbidden. “Even after I had a roof again, I carried the streets with me inside. I kept expecting everything to fall apart. It’s taken me years to feel even a little bit at home in my life.”
Joe looked at Bryce more closely. “I hear ya. You’ve turned out okay though, seems like.”
Bryce allowed a small smile. “More or less. I have a place, a job. I tell stories—well, create immersive story experiences. Trying to help folks the way stories helped me.”
A grin crept onto Joe’s weathered face. “Stories saved me too, in a way. Library downtown, it was like a church for me once I got sober. I’d go read for hours, get lost in other lives. That Central Library’s a beaut, isn’t it? Looks like a lantern over the creek.”
Bryce followed Joe’s gaze down the trail. From here they could see the Austin Central Library’s silhouette—a modern angular structure with broad windows—overlooking the creek just a couple blocks away. Its lights glowed gold, reflecting off the water where Shoal Creek met Lady Bird Lake. “It is,” he agreed. “In fact, I’m headed that way now. There’s a spot behind the library where the creek flows into the lake—I like to watch it join the larger water.”
Joe chuckled. “A man after my own heart. That’s a fine sight. Mind if I walk with you?”
“Not at all,” Bryce said, standing. His legs had stiffened a bit; he realized he must have walked farther than he thought, lost in thought earlier. Joe stood more slowly, one hand on the bench arm to steady himself. Together they continued along the path.
As they walked, tethered homes gently swayed above, their cables creaking softly. One home they passed had wind chimes hanging from its lowest porch step, and as it bobbed, the chimes tinkled a random melody. Bryce imagined the sound swirling with the night breeze, across the water and between the trees, perhaps all the way to the lake.
“So you make immersive stories, eh?” Joe asked after a few moments. “What does that mean exactly?”
Bryce searched for an explanation that made sense. “It’s like… combining virtual reality with personal memories. I create narratives people can step into. The story adapts to their responses, and can even incorporate their own memories if they’re willing to share. It’s a bit like guided dreaming.”
“Sounds fancy,” Joe remarked, though not dismissively. “What kind of stories?”
“Ones that can loop back on themselves. Recursion is a big part of it—repeating scenes with slight changes. The idea is to let someone revisit a painful memory but gradually alter the experience, so they can heal or see it differently.” Bryce glanced at Joe, hoping it didn’t sound too strange.
Joe rubbed his chin. “Like exposure therapy meets storytelling?”
Bryce smiled. “Exactly. But more collaborative. The person becomes a character in their own story and can reshape it. I’m working with a small community group to test it out—folks who’ve been through trauma or homelessness. It’s early, but I’ve seen some breakthroughs. People forgiving themselves… letting go of things. It’s powerful.”
They crossed a small footbridge arching over the creek. Below, the water was darker now, carrying the sky’s deep indigo. Joe peered over the railing at the current. “Lord knows, making peace with the past is hard. I still see my brother’s face at times…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “I think what you’re doing is good. Real good. Don’t let fellas like my friend back there tell you it’s pointless.”
Bryce exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “It helps to hear that. Honestly, earlier today I was talking with a city liaison about funding for the project. He basically said, ‘Why bother? We already solved homelessness. Everyone has a home now.’ He couldn’t understand why some of us are still focusing on mental and emotional health. I left that meeting feeling like maybe I was crazy for pushing this.”
Joe snorted. “Typical bureaucrat thinking everything’s a box to check off. They checked the ‘homes’ box and thought the work was done.”
“Yeah,” Bryce said, kicking a pebble off the bridge into the stream. They watched the ripples spread out, merging with the flow. “I know better. I lived it, and people like you did too. But it’s still hard, going against the narrative that everything is fine now.”
The two men walked on as the path curved behind the Central Library. Here the creek widened at its mouth, joining the expanse of Lady Bird Lake. A pedestrian bridge crossed the water, and they took it, stepping out over the gently lapping lake edge. The city hummed around them—distant music from Rainey Street, the whoosh of a quiet electric bus on the avenue, laughter from a rooftop bar—but over the water it all softened.
Bryce stopped at the middle of the bridge. Joe came to a stop too. On one side, they could see back up Shoal Creek, the way they had come—a darker ribbon under the scattered lights of the trail. On the other side, Lady Bird Lake stretched out, the moon’s reflection wavering on its surface amid skyscraper reflections.
“Every creek finds its way to a greater water,” Bryce said, leaning on the rail. “Sometimes I think of individual lives like that. We have all these little tributaries of memory, flowing through us. Eventually they merge into something bigger—maybe a collective consciousness or just the next generation’s memory. Renewal.”
Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Never thought of it that way. But water is life, they say. And memories are life too, in a sense.”
For a few minutes they stood in comfortable silence. A few bats flitted overhead, newly emerged from under the Congress Avenue Bridge downstream to hunt insects. The water below glimmered with city lights and the last colors of twilight.
Bryce broke the silence softly. “Do you feel at home now, Joe? In yourself, I mean.”
Joe rested his weathered hands on the rail. “More than I used to,” he answered after a moment. “Took time. And people who cared. I had a counselor, I had books, I had faith. And these days, I try to help others – like chatting with you – and that helps me feel I belong on this Earth a bit more.” He turned to look at Bryce. “How about you, son? You feeling at home yet?”
Bryce felt a slight tremor in his chest at the direct question. He gazed down at the meeting of creek and lake, as if the answer might be written in the converging ripples. “I’m getting there,” he said quietly. “Walking helps. Telling stories helps. Meeting people like you… it reminds me I’m not alone in feeling the way I do.”
“You surely ain’t alone,” Joe said. “Not as long as people are honest about what they feel. That’s half the battle, I reckon—admitting when you feel lost. So you can start finding your way.”
A gentle smile played on Bryce’s face. The words resonated, settling into him like stones sinking kindly to the creek bed, forming new ground. “Thank you.”
Far above, one of the tethered homes drifted into view, its rounded form silhouetted against the sky now awash with starlight. Its tether line glimmered faintly with embedded LEDs, a safety measure for low-flying aircraft. The home looked almost like a small moon, hovering between earth and heaven. Bryce imagined for a moment that it was his own heart, finally untethered from fear, floating freely but held by the slender line of connection—to others, to the world—that kept him from floating away.
Joe let out a soft “heh,” noticing Bryce’s upward gaze. “Quite a sight, these floating houses. Who would’ve thought?”
“They’re incredible,” Bryce agreed, eyes still on the drifting domicile. In one of its windows, a pot of ivy trailed tendrils of green, and a paper lantern swayed in the breeze. Someone had made it truly home. “They solved one part of the problem brilliantly.”
“And folks like you will help solve the other part,” Joe added.
Bryce took a deep breath of the night air, filled with the smell of water and the faint fragrance of flowering vines that climbed the bridge railings. He felt a calm determination kindling inside. “I hope so. No—I will. We will. It’s like the creek: the work flows on, even when it seems still.”
Joe patted his back. “That’s the spirit, son.”
From somewhere nearby, a voice called out: “Joe! Hey, Joe!” Bryce and Joe both turned to see a woman on the far end of the bridge, waving. “That your daughter?” Bryce asked.
Joe nodded with a grin. “Yep. Probably wondering where I wandered off to. She lives in one of those,” he pointed at the floating pod overhead, “and keeps an eye on her old man.”
They began walking to meet her. As they drew close, the young woman hopped up onto the bridge. She had Joe’s kind eyes and carried a reusable canvas bag of groceries. “I was getting worried, Dad,” she scolded lightly, then smiled at Bryce in polite surprise.
“Sorry, got to talking,” Joe said. “This here is Bryce. We were just enjoying the view.”
“Nice to meet you, Bryce,” she said. “I’m Helena.”
Bryce returned the smile. “Likewise.” He could see a family resemblance in the set of her shoulders—strong but gentle. Helena glanced between the two men, sensing a meaningful conversation had passed.
“Well, I’m glad Dad had good company. It’s a beautiful evening.” She shifted the grocery bag and nodded toward the far bank. “I’d invite you both for a cup of tea, but my place is a bit small for three,” she joked.
Bryce pictured Joe and his daughter in the cozy floating home, sharing tea while tethered a few feet above the earth. A simple scene that years ago would have been unimaginable. “Another time maybe,” he said kindly. “I should get going anyway.”
Joe shook Bryce’s hand. “Keep that story project going, you hear? You’re doing the Lord’s work, or whatever you wanna call it.”
A flush of gratitude warmed Bryce’s face. “I will. And… thank you, for sharing your walk and your story with me.”
They said their farewells, and Bryce watched as Joe took his daughter’s arm and they headed toward a well-lit path, presumably to where Helena’s levitating home was tethered nearby. Their figures soon disappeared behind a stand of cypress trees and a public art sculpture shaped like a giant open book, one of the new installations along the trail.
Now alone again, Bryce leaned on the railing for a final moment, looking over the water. He closed his eyes and let his other senses take over. He felt the wooden rail solid under his palms, the subtle vibration from the moving water below. He heard the soft chorus of night insects and the distant murmur of the city. He inhaled deeply – the smell of algae and wild grass mixed with the cooling concrete of downtown – a strangely comforting scent of a city at peace for the night.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Shoal Creek as it had been earlier in the day, sunlight playing on its surface. He saw it as it was now, dark but steadfast, flowing onward. And he imagined it in the future, after a rain, swelling with new water, brimming with life again. Renewal – that was the creek’s gift, constant renewal.
Bryce opened his eyes. In the darkness, he caught his faint reflection in the water below: just the suggestion of a face, ghostly and superimposed on the stars and city lights. Once, he might have felt estranged from that face, as if it weren’t quite his own. Tonight, though, he felt a tender recognition. He was looking at someone who had been lost and found, many times over – and would be again – yet who always, like the creek, found a way to keep flowing.
He smiled to himself, a quiet, genuine smile that only the night and the water witnessed. Then Bryce turned and began to make his way off the bridge and toward home. Not just the physical home waiting for him in the city, but the feeling growing steadily in his chest – a feeling of being at home in his own skin, as gentle and persistent as the current of Shoal Creek carrying him forward into tomorrow.