An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night. The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops.

The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den. The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement. The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window. There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house. The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let the mattress take all of it.

The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops.

Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Let the room get slightly further away. The words can start to blur now.

Stay. You can stop listening properly. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Let the dark be ordinary. Just the breath. Almost nothing to do now.

You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.

Let everything get quiet, including this.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.