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

The story, in full

There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.

The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. 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.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Your chest can be still now.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your palms open if they were closed.

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.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Let it all get further away. You do not have to count them.

Just the dark. Sleep. Let the quiet be boring.

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

The end. Sleep well.

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