Sleep story · warm, home
A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you only have a few minutes — 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
A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.
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. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.
Let your hands be completely still. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Almost nothing to do now. Leave it there.
Let your breathing do the rest. Just the dark. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Let the next part go past without you. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let them.
A few minutes is the whole requirement.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.
If this story does not settle you, try A boat at anchor (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for a racing mind, A garden in the rain (a sleep story), if you are tired of apps — for a racing mind or The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, after eating too much — for waking too early.