Novel & Cerita Eight O'clock In The Morning Short Story

Chapter One The notification goes live at 12:03 a.m. Most people don’t notice it right away. Midnight notifications are easy to ignore—another bored scroll, another face glowing in the dark. But for the ones who do click, the screen opens to something oddly quiet. No music. No filter. No bright smile. Just Lila Monroe, framed too close, her face pale in the bluish light of her phone. The familiar background of her bedroom looks different tonight—messier, shadows stretching too long across the walls. Her hair is pulled back like she’s been running her hands through it too many times.

Or was it because I wasn't strong enough? I tossed and turned in bed with my pillow. I don't know how long it took, but it seemed like a century before I finally fell asleep. When I opened my eyes again, it was already morning. Because I had been a slave in Grey Pack for eight years, and if I didn't get up on time I would be beaten by those brutal guys, I habitually got up very early. Bang. Suddenly I heard a knock on the door. I opened the door and outside was a tall man with a big body, but this guy I didn't recognize.

So much for someone who claimed she had control over her sleep. Morning came and as usual, Olive woke up in bed alone. She frowned and rubbed her eyes. “Why doesn't he ever let me wake up by his side? It's not even like I sleep in,” she murmered. She scanned the room for a clock and saw an alarm clock by the bedside table. She peeped over at it and her eyes widened at the time. 9:20am? What in the world was she sleeping that long for? It wasn't like she was drunk to stupor last night!

I didn’t get into college, so I took a job driving a city bus. Once I finished training, I started working the night shift with Uncle Tim. He had always been the kind of guy who followed every rule. But that night, he wouldn’t let me pick up a single passenger. He even made me keep the bus dark the entire route. Uncle Tim died shortly after that incident. A few days later, someone told me something that made my blood run cold. Uncle Tim had actually been dead for quite some time. So who the hell had been riding with me that night?

It was eight o clock and I had been staring out of my window for what seems to be an hour now, the pack house had come to life with the silent footsteps of the pack and chatter. At around seven I could hear beds creaking, running water and the pitter-patter of feet below me, by 7:30 I could hear the sounds of silver wear clicking together and the rustling of plates with light conversation. By 8:00 I heard the front door open thrice and the sound of a car driving out of the driveway and by 8:30 Mr. Snowman hadn’t made it out of the house yet. And as the old broken up clock on my wall struck 9:00 I had decided to give up all hope and get some rest. I don’t know why my heart ached, it wasn’t li

The truth of a man who genuinely didn’t know because genuinely didn’t know was the accurate thing. “But you’re not going to tell me it can’t happen,” I said. He looked at me. “No,” he said. “Because you tried that,” I said. “For eight weeks. The walls and the distance and the managed register.” “Yes,” he said. “And?” I said. He looked at the bloom. “And here we are,” he said. “Crouching in the east bed at seven forty-five on a Sunday morning.” Here we are. The simplest possible summary of eight weeks and everything they had produced. Here we are, in the east bed, the day before the day that changes everything, the bloom finally up, the fragile certain thing standing in bare ground.

Seven in the morning, which was deliberate, the hour of someone who has thought about when to come and has chosen the time that communicated seriousness without desperation, the hour of someone who had something practical to offer and understood that practical things belonged to the morning. I had not slept well. Not from fear, the threat was filed and the security was doubled and Leo had eaten his body weight in pancakes the previous evening and had gone to bed with Gerald under his arm and the absolute, untroubled equanimity of a child whose world was entirely safe and who had no reason to believe otherwise. I had not slept because the day had been sixty-three chapters of buildup arriving

Eight months. More than eight months of waking up every morning in a tiny apartment above a bakery and convincing myself that life hurt a little less than it did the day before. Most days, it actually did. Millhaven slowly became familiar to me in the quietest ways. The bakery downstairs opened before sunrise, filling the building with the warm scent of fresh bread every morning. The diner opened at six sharp. The library on Main Street locked its doors every evening at exactly five, and Mrs. Okafor, the librarian, always carried a sunflower bookmark inside whichever romance novel she was currently reading.

I told him as I stood up from the desk chair and left his room without waiting for him to respond. The next morning I woke to sharp knocks on my dorm room door. I opened one eye as I stretched out before grabbing my cell to check the time. It was exactly 9:30 in the morning, and usually I would have been up earlier but I had been up late last night. I groaned as I rolled out of bed to answer the door, expecting it to be Lauren already on her needy bullshit this morning. However, I opened the door to the sweetest scent hitting my nose. I looked down to see a middle aged Omega man smiling brightly at me, the delicious scent coming from the basket he was holding.

April’s eyes widened a little and for an instant Lucian could see a sparkle in them. ******* Eight o'clock in the morning, a new day was beginning for some, some who saw in it their chance after having had a long rest, others who saw only doom as they encountered the same world over and over again. And among all those people that we can continue to describe were those who no longer had peace in their souls, those who only thought about how to turn back time in order to remedy those mistakes. Among all those people who did not know how to have peace in their souls was that man who had not been able to sleep for the last few days, the same man who only knew how to drink until the next sunrise.