Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down, when your attention is scattered — for a night when you do not want to think
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 will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. 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. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Your chest can be still now. Feel your cheeks let go.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Stay with the weight of your body.
Let them. Sleep. Softer.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. You do not have to count them. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Scattered attention is the raw material, not an obstacle.
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 — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are short on time — for waking too early, The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are sceptical about all of this — for a racing mind or A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have already had a long week — for waking too early.