Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down, when you have more time than usual — 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 logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. 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. 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.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
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.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Slower now. Just the breath.
Let the room get slightly further away. Leave it there. Almost nothing to do now.
Softer. Slower. Just the weight.
This is the longer version, for a day with some slack in it.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try The house after everyone is asleep, if you are tired of apps — for winding down, Sleep story: the night train, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for an overtired night or The house after everyone is asleep, if you have five quiet minutes — for jet lag.