An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when nothing else has worked today — for jet lag

The story, in full

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. The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house.

The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement. 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.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

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

The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your hands be completely still.

There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years. The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops.

If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Just the breath. Let the room get slightly further away.

Sleep. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. They will find their own way out.

Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.

The end. Sleep well.

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