A future shaped by living materials

where materials breathe, grow, and thrive beside us

✨ This is a research-based speculative fiction.

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It’s January 1st, 2056, and the first day of my retirement feels strangely like the start of something else. From where I stand on the 10th floor of my apartment building, the city lights below blink and shimmer in the crisp winter dusk. Some of those lights have an ethereal glow, created by tiny glowing creatures woven into the city’s infrastructure—a faint, pulsing reminder that what surrounds us is very much alive. With each passing year, our buildings, roads, and everyday items have shed their once-inert nature, transforming into dynamic ecosystems that regenerate habitats, enrich the soil, and purify water sources.

Source.

I still recall the excitement I felt back in 2024 when I first saw a self-healing concrete block, infused with fungal spores that would awaken under stress. My colleague had just defended her PhD on the subject and was bursting with pride. The concept seemed radical then: a building material that wouldn’t merely endure, but heal. Within two years, she demonstrated the process on a living prototype in our lab. A hairline crack formed, biosensors detected the strain, and a faint trace of newly grown mortar sealed the gap. By evening, the repair site was barely visible. At the time, I secretly doubted how fast such innovations would catch on, but it’s remarkable how something that once felt like science fiction is now second nature. Here we are, discovering how to live in symbiosis with materials that not only address some of our most persistent ecological challenges but also possess the remarkable ability to repair themselves, change color, and filter the air.

Today in 2056, the objects we use every day are more than just commodities. They play a direct role in environmental renewal, drawing on the adaptable complexity of biology. Many sidewalks and street gutters now feature small channels lined with living filters—engineered microbial communities that trap and metabolize toxins, transforming them into harmless byproducts. When rainwater washes across the pavement, it doesn’t simply run off into the nearest drain. Instead, it travels through these biofiltration systems first, emerging cleaner at the other end.

The same principle applies to entire buildings. Subterranean treatment cells composed of specialized microorganisms absorb and process everything from excess nitrates to chemical pollutants. Imagine hundreds of miniature water treatment plants distributed under streets and foundations, purifying water as it percolates through layers of bioactive materials. This distributed system demands minimal energy or maintenance, yet has a major ecological impact right beneath our feet.

At the heart of these living materials are consortia of microorganisms—bacteria, fungi, and algae—selected or engineered for specific tasks. Some species bind and break down persistent organic pollutants like PFAS (we used to call them “forever chemicals”), while others target microplastics or heavy metals. Trillions of these tiny workers exist in carefully engineered “symbiotic matrices,” which are networks of mutually beneficial microorganisms living within supportive structure. Together, they feed on pollutants, breaking them down and converting them into harmless molecules. Once, microplastics seemed impossible to remove; now, networked biological sensors throughout the city detect spikes in plastic particles and trigger a heightened response from these microbial communities. It’s like a built-in immune system, as natural and automatic as our own bodies fighting off infection.

Some living materials are also designed to “pulse” with ecological benefits. They remain dormant for everyday use, then they wake up when placed in specialized regeneration chambers. The microbes inside ramp up their activity, cleaning or healing the object itself. One of my older pieces of furniture was among the first to feature a co-cultivation of bacteria and fungi engineered to capture and digest plastic fibers from clothing. I remember carefully watering it in its early stages, letting the mycelium weave into a sturdy frame. Over time, the chair molded to my posture, responding to my body’s warmth. When my relentless toddler once damaged one of the arms, I simply applied a nutrient-rich patch that reactivated the local chlamydospores. These dormant fungal spores then germinated and produced fresh mycelium that sealed the damage. Within two days, the arm looked and felt like new. Even better, if the chair would ever need to be replaced, it can biodegrade completely, returning nutrients to the soil or fueling the next generation of bio-innovations.

Such regenerative designs extend beyond furniture. Soil degradation once threatened food security and ecological stability. In many regions, over-farming and poor land management left the ground lifeless. The remedy came in the form of living materials infused with soil fungi, nitrogen-fixing bacteria, and even small invertebrates. These organisms safeguard plant roots, break down pollutants, and capture carbon and nitrogen. Today, urban gardens use bio-bricks seeded with beneficial microbes and local seeds to build retaining walls. Over time, these walls sprout vegetation, attracting pollinators and birds, and slowly replenishing the soil beneath.

A remarkable bonus of merging biology with our infrastructure was the revival of local biodiversity. Where traditional concrete barriers once halted wildlife, new living materials serve as refuges and breeding grounds for a range of species. Many architects now incorporate layered ecosystems into their designs. A single building might offer bee-friendly plants, fungal-based insulation, and water retention pods for frogs and salamanders.

When I think back to a time when mass production and mass pollution were practically synonymous, it feels almost surreal. In the span of just a few decades, we went from depleting our planet’s resources without limits to using living organisms that can help heal and protect our world. We haven’t merely reduced our impact on the environment, we’ve fully embraced the concept of true regeneration. “Waste” has become so obsolete that my son recently asked if I even remember what the word means—his own children certainly do not. Now, it is perfectly normal for everyday objects to collaborate with the living world, actively restoring what was once broken.

Meanwhile, worsening heat and aridity due to climate change pose another challenge. Some microbes simply can not survive in such extremes, prompting scientists to embed enzymes or dormant spores from thermophilic organisms. These heat-loving microbes spring to life when temperatures soar, maintaining the living systems that sustain our cities.

The journey, of course, hasn’t been smooth. The very adaptability that makes living materials so powerful also introduces risks. Microbes can mutate, and we have faced our share of aggressive strains or inadvertent cross-contamination. Governments have stepped up to ensure ecological safety. We learned the hard way that even beneficial organisms can become problematic under shifting conditions. But, I will go into that more deeply next time. For now, I need to figure out why the lights just flickered. Most likely, Billy, our bio-battery is running out of food.