Sleep story · cozy, rain
An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for winding down
Sloping ceiling, rain on the roof a foot above your head.
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
The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window. 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. There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your hands be completely still.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your palms open if they were closed.
There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years. The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement. There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood. The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Softer. You do not have to count them.
Slower. The words can start to blur now. Sleep.
Let it all get further away. Leave it there. Let the dark be ordinary.
You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.
If this story does not settle you, try A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have already had a long week — for an overtired night, A caravan by the sea (a sleep story), when you have just finished work — for a restless night or A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, when you need something unremarkable — for a racing mind.