Sleep story · warm, home
A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have already had a long week — for jet lag
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
A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.
There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the mattress take all of it.
There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all.
Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?
Your ankles can go loose now. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Let the room get slightly further away. Just the dark.
Just the breath. Let them. Slower now.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Nothing here needs following closely. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
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 garden in the rain, when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for jet lag, A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you are short on time — for the hours after a late shift or A field under snow, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for waking too early.