“No,” Kendra said. “But I’m here to stay.”
The words landed like stones in still water. Marv chuckled, wiping the counter. “People say that. Then winter comes.” kendra sunderland here to stay
One by one, the walls began to crumble.
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. “No,” Kendra said
“You’re not from here,” said Marv, the diner’s owner, sliding her a second cup. “People say that
She never asked for thanks. She never complained. She simply was there—morning after morning, storm after storm.
“I told you,” she said. “I’m here to stay.”