Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down, when nothing else has worked today — for a restless 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
Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
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.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your ankles can go loose now.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your hands be completely still.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. You do not have to count them.
Nothing here needs following closely. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Just the weight.
Just the dark. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Just the breath.
Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try The house after everyone is asleep, on a low-energy afternoon — for winding down, A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you are somewhere noisy — for an overtired night or A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when you are somewhere noisy — for winding down.