A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are at home and cannot settle — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Let your hands be completely still. Your chest can be still now.

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.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Your ankles can go loose now. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

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.

If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather. Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let the mattress take all of it.

Softer. Let the dark be ordinary.

You can stop listening properly. Let the quiet be boring. Let your breathing do the rest.

Being at home and unable to settle is a very specific problem.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.