Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down, when nothing else has worked today — 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
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 heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your hands be completely still.
Let it all get further away. Just the breath.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Slower now.
Let your breathing do the rest. Softer. The words can start to blur now.
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 Sleep story: a field under snow, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a restless night, Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you need something unremarkable — for a night when you do not want to think or Sleep story: a bus at night, when you are on your own — for winding down.