Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you need something unremarkable — for an overtired night
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. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
Feel your wrists loosen. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Almost nothing to do now. Softer.
Slower. They will find their own way out. Nothing here needs following closely.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let your breathing do the rest. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: the night train, on a day that started badly — for an overtired night, A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for winding down or An attic room, if you have five quiet minutes — for an overtired night.