Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when the house is busy — for winding down
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
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Let it all get further away. You can stop listening properly.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Just the breath. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
You do not have to count them. Sleep. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
It works with other people in the house. You do not need silence.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A lake before dawn, when you only have a few minutes — for a racing mind, A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you want to be left alone — for an overtired night or An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for the hours after a late shift.