Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you need something unremarkable — for a racing mind
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
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
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 window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Your chest can be still now. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Just the breath. Let your breathing do the rest.
You can stop listening properly. You do not have to count them. Let them.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the dark be ordinary.
Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for jet lag, A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when your attention is scattered — for jet lag or A kitchen late at night, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for winding down.