Sleep story · warm, home
A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have already had a long week — for a restless night
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
The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.
There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.
Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.
Let your hands be completely still. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let your breathing do the rest. Just the weight.
Nothing here needs following closely. You can stop listening properly. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Leave it there. Just the breath.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you have been on screens all day — for a racing mind, A fire dying down, before you go back to something hard — for a night when you do not want to think or Sleep story: a hotel room somewhere, if you are new to this — for winding down.