A fire dying down (a sleep story), if you have done this a hundred times — for a night when you do not want to think

The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.

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. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel your cheeks let go.

The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Just the weight. Let the room get slightly further away.

Let them. Slower now. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.