A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have just finished work — for a racing mind

The story, in full

The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. 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. 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.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your hands be completely still.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your wrists loosen.

If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let it all get further away.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the quiet be boring. Let them.

The gap right after work is the easiest one to use.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.