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 jet lag
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 ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
Let your hands be completely still. Feel your wrists loosen.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the room get slightly further away.
Stay with the weight of your body. Sleep. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Just the weight. Slower now. Stay.
After a day of screens, the eyes and the shoulders need this first.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you want to be left alone — for a restless night, A fire dying down, on a day that started badly — for a restless night or A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you want something simple — for the hours after a late shift.