Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow, when you have tried everything else — 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
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Let your hands be completely still. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.
Your chest can be still now. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Stay.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let the dark be ordinary. Just the weight.
This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are cold and want to be warm — for the hours after a late shift, Sleep story: a bus at night, if you are tired of apps — for a restless night or Sleep story: a caravan by the sea, on a day that started badly — for winding down.