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 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 logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. 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.
The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Your chest can be still now. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your cheeks let go.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
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.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your ankles can go loose now.
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.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Leave it there. Let the quiet be boring.
Slower now. Nothing here needs following closely. Let the next part go past without you.
Just the dark. Let your breathing do the rest. Just the breath.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a library at closing time, when you have woken up too early — for a racing mind, A fire dying down, on a day that started badly — for a restless night or Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, if you have five quiet minutes — for winding down.