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37th and Wabash, 2007.
Under the Green Line tracks, the city hums in its familiar way—steel and concrete, motion and stillness, a rhythm older than him, older than anyone still walking these streets. The rattle of the train above, the screech of metal on metal, the echoes of something moving forward, always forward.
He thinks about the ones who imagined the world before it arrived.
The William Gibsons, the futurists who saw the blueprint before the foundation was even poured. How they mapped out VR, AR, digital landscapes before the technology even existed, how they envisioned connections across space, minds linked through invisible channels.
No ideas are original.
But still—some people are chosen to live inside them, to walk through what was once theory, to be flesh and bone inside what was once only dream.
And isn't that what he is?
Anointed, in a way.
To exist in the reality they imagined, the one his own ancestors had dreamed of as they fled the South, as they arrived in Chicago during the Great Migration, as they built lives from nothing but will and survival.
To be here—in this city, in this moment, in this future they could see but never touch.
And then—the object.
The black metallic form, shifting between liquid and vessel, between structure and movement, appearing again, a presence neither fully real nor fully unreal.
But this time, it is moving.
Not away. Not vanishing.
Back toward Hyde Park.
Calling him.
Leading him.
Forward.