A fire dying down (a sleep story), if you have done this a hundred times — for winding down

The story, in full

The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.

The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your cheeks let go.

You can stop listening properly. Let the next part go past without you.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let your breathing do the rest. You do not have to count them.

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.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.