White Nights By Fyodor Dostoevsky Novels & Stories

Frozen. The sunlight was getting brighter. Not gradually—noticeably. The shadows on my wall were shrinking. I squinted at the window. The sky outside was not blue. It was white. A pure, flat, featureless white, like a sheet of paper stretched across the world. I got up and walked to the window. The street below was empty. No cars. No people. No birds. The trees stood perfectly still, their leaves glowing as if lit from within. The light had no source. It was just there. Everywhere.

I could not help but wonder if the girl who once treated the dress like a precious relic was the same one who just trashed it without a second thought. The noise from the room faded, and I knew it was time to leave. I pulled out my phone and shot a quick text to my private investigator. It was time to find out what Jane was really up to. I walked into my house, numb, and my gaze was immediately drawn to the massive wedding portrait on the living room wall. Jane's smile, once a beacon of joy, then seemed to mock me. I slumped onto the couch, lighting one cigarette after another, waiting for the night to drag on.

“We’ll talk later.” I sighed and let myself fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I wasn’t alone in that house. Something—or someone—was watching me. Suddenly, I felt it. That strange sensation of being watched. I slowly sat up in bed, sharpening my hearing. A creak in the hallway? A whisper behind the door? My heart began to race. Then I saw it. Two yellow eyes glowed from the darkest corner of the room. A black shape moved within the shadows, and for a second, a shiver ran down my spine.

Unfolding the rough paper under the dim candlelight, my breath completely seized inside my throat, as I read the content of the letter: "THE WHITE WOLF, CHILD OF PERDITION, SHALL BE KILLED BEFORE HE DESTROYS OUR WORLD."

Falcon had no idea what the white light was, but a strong sense of death had engulfed his body. Finally, the white light closed in, and Falcon could see what it was through the viewfinder. It was a throwing dagger!

Now the Russians will cut their necks, drain their blood, and skin them. - Well, guys, let's go soon, - Deven got to his feet and suddenly swayed. He leaned on the shoulder of his frightened groaning wife, and then fell back into a lush high snowdrift. And the snow on my face no longer melted. * * * When she woke up, she didn't understand. In the student days the days are short, and the light is not visible because of the shutters. Although ... she didn't care - day or night in the yard. That was not what was thought.

If during the day I still somehow wanted to sleep, then at night it was as if matches had been inserted into my eyes, and they simply refused to close. After washing, I put on Grisha's T-shirt. Fuck that she was white, that is, not lucky, as Alyosha said, color. Luck turned away from me a long time ago anyway, and everything that I had in my life was as labored out as one could imagine. Falling into a kind of melancholy, I spun around the bed, feeling the carvings on the canopy posts. Grisha removed the roof, leaving only the beams, on which cream curtains hung, which did not interfere with the view of part of the mirrored ceiling above the bed.

As I took small bites of my meal, my mind wandered back to the book's descriptions. When breakfast was finally over, I excused myself politely and headed back to the garden. I retrieved the book from its hiding place and found a secluded spot where I could read in peace. The more I read, the more I realized how much had been lost to history. The white wolves were not the monsters they had been made out to be. They were beings of incredible power and kindness, who had only sought to live in harmony with others.

Alessia Volkov I didn’t sleep much. Between Stassie’s tear-stained confession and the image of Viktor Natov's cold eyes, my mind had been restless, ricocheting between dread and helplessness. When I finally slipped out of bed, the penthouse was silent, bathed in the soft grey light of early morning. The city outside hadn’t quite woken up yet it was in that liminal space between night and day, when even the chaos paused to breathe. I padded barefoot into the kitchen, tying my robe as I went, determined to do something useful like cooking breakfast. A distraction, really. Something normal. Familiar. Something that didn’t involve betrayal, blackmail, or the question of who might die next.

He had even seen the eyes of men who knew they were about to die and there is nothing to do about it. But he had never seen a god, or like right now, a goddess. He lay slumped against the now overturned dresser, his vision tunneling into grey vignettes as the aconite shut down his organs. The heat of the fire was blistering, peeling the wallpaper behind him, but he couldn't feel it. He was cold. So cold. And then, the light came. It wasn't the erratic, hungry orange of the flames razing the cabin. It was a pure, absolute white light. It poured through the shattered balcony doors like a physical wave, washing over him. It didn't burn. It felt like standing in a blizzard of diamond dust.