An attic room (a sleep story), when you are at home and cannot settle — for waking too early

The story, in full

The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den. The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks. There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night.

The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window. The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your chest can be still now.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood.

Let your hands be completely still. Feel your cheeks let go.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked.

Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel your wrists loosen.

Nothing here needs following closely. You can stop listening properly.

Leave it there. Just the weight. Just the breath.

Being at home and unable to settle is a very specific problem.

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

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.