Sleep story · warm, winter
Sleep story: a fire dying 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 logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. 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 will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your ankles can go loose now.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel your cheeks let go.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Almost nothing to do now.
You can stop listening properly. Let it all get further away. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Stay with the weight of your body. Nothing here needs following closely. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Being at home and unable to settle is a very specific problem.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: an attic room for winding down, A library at closing time (a sleep story), when you are waiting for something — for a restless night or An attic room (a sleep story) for waking too early.