Sleep story · warm, home
A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when nothing else has worked today — for a night when you do not want to think
One small light on, a cooling cup of tea, and the rest of the house dark.
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
There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.
The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your ankles can go loose now.
There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another.
Feel your cheeks let go. Your chest can be still now.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Just the breath. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Let them. Slower. The words can start to blur now.
Let it all get further away. They will find their own way out. Softer.
Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.
The end. Sleep well.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.
If this story does not settle you, try A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, if you have five quiet minutes — for a restless night, A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when nothing else has worked today — for the hours after a late shift or A library at closing time (a sleep story), when you are not in the mood — for an overtired night.