She moved into the lighthouse keeper’s cottage—a squat, granite building that smelled of kerosene and regret. For the first week, she did nothing but clean. She scrubbed soot from the fireplace, patched the broken windows with marine plywood, and swept out decades of gull feathers and shattered glass. At night, she sat on the rocky beach and watched the waves tear themselves apart on the shore.
The real story came out in October, during the first real gale of the season. Kendra was down at the dock, securing a skiff that had broken loose, when she saw a figure stumbling along the jetty—a kid, maybe twelve, soaked to the bone and crying. She hauled him into the cottage, wrapped him in blankets, and learned that his name was Leo. He’d been trying to prove he wasn’t afraid of the old lighthouse. The storm had caught him on the rocks. kendra sunderland here to stay
“And you just decided to stay?” Eunice asked. She moved into the lighthouse keeper’s cottage—a squat,
The words landed like stones in still water. Marv chuckled, wiping the counter. “People say that. Then winter comes.” At night, she sat on the rocky beach
“I told you,” she said. “I’m here to stay.”
“No,” Kendra said. “But I’m here to stay.”
She never asked for thanks. She never complained. She simply was there—morning after morning, storm after storm.