Sleep story · cozy, rain
Sleep story: an attic room, when you have already had a long week — for a night when you do not want to think
Sloping ceiling, rain on the roof a foot above your head.
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
There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years. The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house. The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood.
The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den. There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night. The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Your chest can be still now. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let the next part go past without you. Almost nothing to do now.
They will find their own way out. Slower. Softer.
Stay with the weight of your body. Leave it there. The words can start to blur now.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
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 cozy, rain.
If this story does not settle you, try A field under snow (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for an overtired night, A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for a restless night or A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you want to be left alone — for jet lag.