Sleep story · warm, home
Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, before you go back to something hard — for the hours after a late shift
One small light on, a cooling cup of tea, and the rest of the house dark.
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
Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.
Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let the mattress take all of it.
There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your hands be completely still.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Softer. Stay.
Slower. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Just the breath. Leave it there. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Five minutes here is cheaper than an hour of grinding.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.
If this story does not settle you, try A library at closing time (a sleep story), when your attention is scattered — for a restless night, A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), if you have five quiet minutes — for a racing mind or Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when the house is busy — for waking too early.