Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for a restless night
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. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. 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. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your ankles can go loose now.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Feel your cheeks let go. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
The words can start to blur now. Let your breathing do the rest.
Let the room get slightly further away. They will find their own way out. You do not have to count them.
Let it all get further away. Stay. Sleep.
A few minutes is the whole requirement.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.