Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have already had a long week — 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
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. 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. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your chest can be still now.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your hands be completely still.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let the mattress take all of it.
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.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Let the dark be ordinary. Leave it there.
Let them. Just the dark. Let the next part go past without you.
Stay with the weight of your body. The words can start to blur now. Stay.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try The night train, after a difficult conversation — for winding down, A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, if you have five quiet minutes — for jet lag or Sleep story: a field under snow, when you need to stop thinking about work — for jet lag.