Sleep story · cozy, rain
An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are waiting for something — for a night when you do not want to think
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 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 floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks.
The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den. 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 the mattress take all of it. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
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.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
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.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked. The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night. The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement.
Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Let your breathing do the rest. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the next part go past without you. Slower.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let them. Stay with the weight of your body.
Waiting is dead time you can spend on this instead.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.
If this story does not settle you, try The house after everyone is asleep (a sleep story), when you are on your own — for waking too early, Sleep story: an attic room, after a long day — for a racing mind or A boat at anchor, when you have tried everything else — for the hours after a late shift.