Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been on screens all day — 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 window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. 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.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
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.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let the mattress take all of it.
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.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Slower. Leave it there.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Almost nothing to do now.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Just the breath.
After a day of screens, the eyes and the shoulders need this first.
The end. Sleep well.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.