Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for the hours after a late shift
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
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 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. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your wrists loosen.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the mattress take all of it.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
You can stop listening properly. Let your breathing do the rest.
Let the dark be ordinary. Stay with the weight of your body. Stay.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Just the weight. Let the quiet be boring.
A few minutes is the whole requirement.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try A boat at anchor (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for waking too early, A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when the house is busy — for jet lag or The night train (a sleep story), when you need to stop thinking about work — for a racing mind.