Sleep story: a fire dying down, after a long day — for the hours after a late shift

The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.

There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Your ankles can go loose now. Feel your wrists loosen.

There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.

Your chest can be still now. Feel your cheeks let go.

If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Just the dark. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

The words can start to blur now. You can stop listening properly. Just the breath.

You do not have to count them. Sleep. Slower.

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.