Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have more time than usual — for an overtired night
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 are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Feel your cheeks let go. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
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.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let the next part go past without you. Just the dark.
Softer. Let them. Stay.
Sleep. Almost nothing to do now. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
This is the longer version, for a day with some slack in it.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you want to be left alone — for a racing mind, A fire dying down (a sleep story), if you have done this a hundred times — for winding down or The night train (a sleep story), on a low-energy afternoon — for jet lag.