Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for waking too early
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your palms open if they were closed.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Just the dark. Let them.
You can stop listening properly. Let it all get further away. Slower.
Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a library at closing time, when you are doing this for the first time — for waking too early, A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are at home and cannot settle — for winding down or A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been putting it off — for waking too early.