Sleep story · cozy, rain
An attic room, if you have five quiet minutes — 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 rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked.
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 room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
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 space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night. The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
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.
Feel your wrists loosen. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks. The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood.
If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Almost nothing to do now. Just the dark.
Sleep. Just the weight. Let the room get slightly further away.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the dark be ordinary.
Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when the house is busy — for an overtired night, Sleep story: a library at closing time, when you are doing this for the first time — for waking too early or A caravan by the sea — a slow story for the end of the day, when you only have a few minutes — for winding down.