A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when you want to be left alone — for a restless night

The story, in full

The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table. The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing.

The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back. The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your wrists loosen.

The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your cheeks let go.

Everything here will still be here tomorrow. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it. The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish. The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you.

Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again. You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your hands be completely still.

Just the breath. You do not have to count them.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. They will find their own way out.

You can stop listening properly. Let the next part go past without you. Let the room get slightly further away.

Nothing here asks anything of you socially.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.