Specter of La Sirene del Crescente

I rubbed the inky residue off the tip of my finger with a napkin and pursed my lip casually. The commission was done, but something seemed missing – and I knew it was more than the absence of my artist signature in the right-hand bottom corner. I narrowed my eyes and continued to peer at the image I’d created – the morphing edges of grey, black, and white somehow seeming to shift across the page as I stared back at it.

A wave on the water shifts from rhythmic and dancing to tumultuous and dashing. The sea of life hosts waters of ever-evolving change – embrace the current in its shifting majesty.

I groaned as this strange and random thought passed through my mind, and I knew I needed to get to work on booking my flight to New Orleans. The last time I had done this had been quite the ordeal because the phonetics of my last name were a mess, and the airline had completely botched the spelling to De la Crow, as opposed to Delacreau, though I understood how the agent had mistakenly written it just like it sounded.

Now, I did all my booking through my airline apps and avoided any mishaps I didn’t need. I had become a routine person, and sticking to my schedule and planned out lifestyle without any disruptions was my preference. That, and I battled some terrible anxiety that I still hadn’t gotten under control despite my Celexa prescription being popped like candy. I picked up my phone and tapped the app for American Airlines to search for the next flight and found there was one leaving just after noon the next day.

“Okay,” I murmured, typing my name in and for some reason speaking it aloud as I did so, “Lenïyah Elianne Delacreau.”

***

With the flight now confirmed, I set my phone down on the cluttered table beside a half-empty coffee cup and stared at the ceiling. The apartment felt suddenly small, claustrophobic. The walls, covered in my art, seemed to lean in, reminding me of the life I was about to leave behind—or perhaps the one I couldn’t outrun.

The light filtered in weakly through the dusty blinds, casting thin stripes across my scattered sketches and paint tubes. The faint smell of turpentine and coffee mingled in the stale air, stubborn reminders of my late-night work sessions and restless mornings. Somewhere in the background, a siren wailed, blending with the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a neighbor’s dog.

Packing would have to wait. My thoughts were restless, bouncing from the past to the unknown future waiting in Tremé.

I thought of my aunt’s house, its peeling shutters and the way the sunlight had once danced through the stained glass windows. The smell of old wood and jasmine drifting sweetly through the cracked doorways. The altars she had so carefully arranged in shadowed corners, candles flickering softly even on the hottest days. I never understood them, never felt comfortable around them.

But now, the thought of those candles made my throat tighten.

Why hadn’t she sold that house after Katrina? Why had she held onto a place so steeped in decay, death, and memories?

I glanced back at the painting resting on the easel, its shifting greys and blacks somehow echoing those questions, the tumultuous waters reflecting the storm inside me. Sometimes I wondered if my art was more than just expression—that maybe I was capturing something deeper, something that even I couldn’t fully understand yet. The way the shapes moved, the fluidity of the lines, the pull of the shadows… it felt like a secret calling out to me, a whisper from the past.

Art had always been my refuge. The way the brush felt in my hand, the scratch of charcoal on paper—it grounded me when the noise in my head grew too loud. Yet lately, even that sanctuary felt fragile, as if the currents beneath were shifting faster than I could keep pace.

I thought about the creeping presence of artificial intelligence—the ease with which algorithms could replicate styles and create perfect images at a fraction of the cost and effort. It was a threat that haunted me like a dark cloud on my horizon, challenging everything I had worked for. I pushed harder, forcing myself to pour every ounce of emotion and energy into my work, but the doubt gnawed at me relentlessly.

Was my art still mine? Was it still real? Or was I just clinging to a dying craft in a world that was moving on without me?

A sudden flicker at the corner of my eye made me jerk my head toward the window. For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow move—an indistinct figure reflected in the glass. My heart stuttered, and I blinked, but the street was empty. Just an overgrown tree swaying in the evening breeze.

I shook the image from my mind, but the sensation lingered, a prickling along my skin like the warning before a storm. Strange dreams had been coming more frequently these nights—dreams of water and whispers, faces half-seen beneath rippling waves, voices calling my name just beyond hearing.

Last night, I had dreamed of a woman with emerald eyes, standing waist-deep in dark water, her hair flowing like kelp in the current. She reached out, but I could never touch her—she slipped away before I could grasp her hand.

I’d woken with my chest tight and my skin clammy, the echo of that gaze lingering in my mind.

I wasn't sure what it meant, but I knew it was connected to all this—my aunt, the house, the letter.

My fingers drummed nervously on the table as I forced myself to stand and move toward the window. Outside, the city buzzed with life—people rushing home, lights flickering on in apartments, the distant bell of a streetcar.

Somewhere deep inside, a part of me longed for the warmth of home, for answers that only the past could provide.

But another part recoiled, fearful of what I might find.

The night stretched long and heavy around me. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the storm inside, and turned back to my worktable.

Just then, a sudden knock at the door startled me. I wasn’t expecting anyone. My heart jumped, skipping a beat. I walked over cautiously, every instinct telling me to hesitate.

When I opened it, no one was there. Only a small package lay on the welcome mat.

I bent down and picked it up. The paper was rough, tied with a thin green ribbon, like the color of river water after a rain.

No note.

Curious and unsettled, I brought the package inside and set it on the table. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, mixing with the fading smell of coffee and paint.

I untied the ribbon slowly, fingers trembling. Inside was an aged envelope, sealed with deep green wax bearing an intricate symbol I didn’t recognize—a mermaid clutching a trident.

I broke the seal carefully and unfolded the letter inside.

The handwriting was elegant and flowing, yet strong, as if it were written by someone accustomed to commanding respect.

To my dearest Lenïyah,

If you are reading this, then the time has come for you to remember who you are—and who you must become. The tides are turning, and with them, your legacy awakens…

My breath caught.

I folded the letter and held it close to my chest, feeling the strange mix of fear and curiosity swirl inside me.

Outside, the city’s hum seemed distant, the setting sun casting long shadows over my apartment.

Tomorrow, I would board that flight.

But tonight…the ghosts of my past stirred in the dark.