A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when you need something unremarkable — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. Everything here will still be here tomorrow. The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing.

The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections. Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Let your hands be completely still. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps.

If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let the room get slightly further away.

Leave it there. Softer. Just the breath.

Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.

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

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.