Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow, when the day has been loud — for the hours after a late shift
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
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. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. 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.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Just the dark. The words can start to blur now.
They will find their own way out. Nothing here needs following closely. Let the quiet be boring.
For days that were loud from the moment they started.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.