Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down (a sleep story), before you go back to something hard — for a racing mind
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
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 heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your hands be completely still.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Your chest can be still now. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point. If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Slower now. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Let them. Let it all get further away. The words can start to blur now.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the room get slightly further away. Let your breathing do the rest.
Five minutes here is cheaper than an hour of grinding.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of the day, after a long day — for a restless night, Sleep story: the night train, when the house is busy — for a racing mind or Sleep story: the night train, when you are too tired to try hard — for a restless night.