The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are new to this — for jet lag

The story, in full

Outside, a car goes past and its headlights sweep across the ceiling, then are gone. Everyone went to bed an hour ago, and the house has stopped making the sounds it makes during the day. There is a chair by the window that nobody sits in during the day.

The curtains are not quite closed, and there is a thin line of streetlight along the wall. Everything in the room is exactly where it was left. The lamp beside you is the only light left on in the whole house.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

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.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Your chest can be still now.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

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

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

The floorboards have stopped creaking because nobody is walking on them. The clock in the hallway ticks slightly behind the one in the kitchen.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The radiator clicks once as it cools down. Everyone went to bed an hour ago, and the house has stopped making the sounds it makes during the day.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Outside, a car goes past and its headlights sweep across the ceiling, then are gone. The lamp beside you is the only light left on in the whole house.

Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

You can stop listening properly. Let the quiet be boring.

They will find their own way out. Let them. Just the dark.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Slower now. Stay.

Nothing here assumes you have done this before.

The end. Sleep well.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, home.