A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — for winding down

The story, in full

The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.

Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Your chest can be still now.

Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.

If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Just the weight. The words can start to blur now.

Let the dark be ordinary. They will find their own way out. You can stop listening properly.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Slower.

Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.