Sleep story · warm, winter
Sleep story: a fire dying down, after a long day — for winding down
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
The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. 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.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. The words can start to blur now.
Softer. Just the weight. Sleep.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the quiet be boring.
Use it at the end of a long day, not at the start of one.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain (a sleep story), on a day that started badly — for a racing mind, A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), on a low-energy afternoon — for waking too early or Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have tried everything else — for winding down.