Sleep story · cozy, rain
An attic room, before you go back to something hard — 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
There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years. 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.
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 floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window. The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the mattress take all of it.
There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
The words can start to blur now. Just the breath. Softer.
Slower. Let your breathing do the rest. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Five minutes here is cheaper than an hour of grinding.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: the house after everyone is asleep, if you are sceptical about all of this — for winding down, Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, before you go back to something hard — for a restless night or The house after everyone is asleep, if you have five quiet minutes — for a restless night.