A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have more time than usual — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.

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. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

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.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your wrists loosen.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.

Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Slower. They will find their own way out.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Just the weight. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

This is the longer version, for a day with some slack in it.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.

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