Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for winding down
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 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. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. 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. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
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.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let the mattress take all of it.
The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Your ankles can go loose now. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
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.
Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Softer. Slower now.
Sleep. You can stop listening properly. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Stay. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
A few minutes is the whole requirement.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain, when you are cold and want to be warm — for winding down, A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, if you have done this a hundred times — for winding down or A bus at night (a sleep story), if you are new to this — for an overtired night.