Sleep story · cozy, rain
An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when nothing else has worked today — for waking too early
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 floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked. 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 radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Your ankles can go loose now.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years.
Your chest can be still now. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Sleep. Let it all get further away.
Leave it there. Let them. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.