A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when nothing else has worked today — for the hours after a late shift

There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Let them. Almost nothing to do now.

The words can start to blur now. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. You do not have to count them. Slower.

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.