La Sirena’s Blessing of Belonging

V.M. Ayala’s debut with The Sunday Morning Transport this week invites us to visit the ocean and make a wish.

~ Julian and Fran, March 8, 2026

March sweeps in with a wonderful quartet of stories as The Sunday Morning Transport brings tales by Ben Francisco, V.M. Ayala, Alex Irvine, and Leah Cypess. We are grateful for your support in helping us get here, and in continuing to bring more extraordinary writers and their work to the page.

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La Sirena’s Blessing of Belonging

by V.M. Ayala

The highway slab jutted out of the ocean, away from the shoreline, thick columns of concrete poking above the waves. The house on top grew larger as I rowed closer. A faded, blinking neon sign proclaimed the home La Casa Sirena. It was famous, deplored, loved, and feared. It was almost impossible to get to with this useless boat. The squealing motor had quit after I couldn’t pay the usage fees, but I managed with the flimsy complimentary oars.

Mist soaked my tattered hoodie, leaving me sodden and weighed down until I wondered if I might sink this tiny dinghy. Maybe that would be easier than poking at the questions I wanted answered.

Julieta waved from underneath the sign like a lighthouse, except she lured me toward her rather than warned me away, daring me to dash myself upon her. We’d been texting for several months now. I smiled and waved back.

***

It took a surprising choreography of rowing and awkward ropethrowing and Julieta sweetly navigating me through tying the correct knot to come ashore. I scrambled up a metal rung, polished by daily use, embedded between rusted bones of rebar. They jutted out precariously close to my head as I pulled myself up, up, up.

“Ines! I’m so glad you came—and, well, sorry for the precarious trip.” Julieta nodded with her chin at my dented piece-of-shit boat. “I see the city is still the same, never helpful.”

“Tragically,” I replied. It cost my entire rent to, well, rent a tiny boat and come out to the forbidden highway ruins. I had nowhere left to go but here. Not that Julieta needed to know that. La Sirena would solve this problem for me. She had to.

We both stared out toward said city. The skyscrapers twinkled along the horizon, water from the bayous glittering in the now midday sun. Thank goodness it was winter; it was nice and cool even in (slightly) thicker clothes. But at least it wasn’t a cold snap; then my battered hoodie wouldn’t be enough.

“Come, you came all this way for answers. Let me introduce you to my abuela.” Julieta extended her hand shyly.

I took hold, fingers entwined like my boat with its rope, now safely nestled in refurbished rubble.

***

“Abuela! Can you come down? We have a guest!” Julieta called upstairs.

The house was a house, ordinary, built in the early 2020s. The floors were scratched here and there but well-kept, the kitchen similarly dented and scratched but preserved. This place was loved in a way I didn’t fully comprehend.

“Niña, por qué inglés?” A woman with short silver hair shuffled down the creaking stairs. She muttered with each step, taking her time.

“We have a guest,” Julieta repeated, louder this time. “You spoke to her on a call yesterday. Recuerdas?”

“Sí, sí, claro. Ines. See? I remember just fine. Welcome, welcome.” The old woman took me by the hand, giving it a loving squeeze as she smiled at me. “You’ve come a long way.”

Her Spanish lingered in her English for a few syllables, the accent brushing against her vowels, sticking in the slightest hesitation between sentences. I hoped to be able to switch so easily, someday.