Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down, when nothing else has worked today — for waking too early
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 fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. 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. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your hands be completely still.
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.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
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.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your cheeks let go.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your wrists loosen.
Almost nothing to do now. Let it all get further away.
The words can start to blur now. Just the weight. Let the room get slightly further away.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the quiet be boring. You can stop listening properly.
Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a fire dying down, if you have done this a hundred times — for a racing mind, The night train, after a difficult conversation — for winding down or Sleep story: a caravan by the sea, on a day that started badly — for winding down.