Sleep story · warm, winter
Sleep story: a fire dying down, after a long day — for a night when you do not want to think
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
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
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your chest can be still now.
Stay. Let them.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Leave it there. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Slower now. The words can start to blur now.
Use it at the end of a long day, not at the start of one.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a boat at anchor, when you have woken up too early — for a night when you do not want to think, The night train (a sleep story), after a difficult conversation — for a racing mind or Sleep story: the house after everyone is asleep, if you are fitting this around other people — for a night when you do not want to think.