Sleep story · quiet, books
A library at closing time, when you have already had a long week — for the hours after a late shift
The last hour, when the lights go down row by row.
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
Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it. 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 clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back. The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Your chest can be still now.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table. The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish. Everything here will still be here tomorrow.
Let your hands be completely still. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Softer.
Nothing here needs following closely. Stay with the weight of your body. Slower.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay. Let it all get further away.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
The end. Sleep well.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.
If this story does not settle you, try A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), if you have five quiet minutes — for a racing mind, A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, if you have done this a hundred times — for a restless night or Sleep story: a hotel room somewhere, when you feel restless rather than tired — for jet lag.