The house after everyone is asleep (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for winding down

Everyone went to bed an hour ago, and the house has stopped making the sounds it makes during the day. The curtains are not quite closed, and there is a thin line of streetlight along the wall. The fridge hums on and off in the kitchen, and that is the loudest thing in the building.

There is nothing left on the list for today. Outside, a car goes past and its headlights sweep across the ceiling, then are gone. Everything in the room is exactly where it was left.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

A glass of water sits on the table, half finished. The lamp beside you is the only light left on in the whole house.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let them. Let the dark be ordinary.

Slower. Let the next part go past without you. You can stop listening properly.

You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.

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