Sleep story: the house after everyone is asleep, when you want something simple — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

The curtains are not quite closed, and there is a thin line of streetlight along the wall. There is nothing left on the list for today. There is a chair by the window that nobody sits in during the day.

The clock in the hallway ticks slightly behind the one in the kitchen. Everything in the room is exactly where it was left. The floorboards have stopped creaking because nobody is walking on them.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

The radiator clicks once as it cools down. A glass of water sits on the table, half finished.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

The fridge hums on and off in the kitchen, and that is the loudest thing in the building. Outside, a car goes past and its headlights sweep across the ceiling, then are gone.

Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Slower. Just the breath.

Let the dark be ordinary. Nothing here needs following closely. Leave it there.

Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, home.