The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are waiting for something — for winding down

The fridge hums on and off in the kitchen, and that is the loudest thing in the building. 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.

Outside, a car goes past and its headlights sweep across the ceiling, then are gone. The radiator clicks once as it cools down. A glass of water sits on the table, half finished.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

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

There is nothing left on the list for today. The floorboards have stopped creaking because nobody is walking on them.

Let your hands be completely still. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Let the dark be ordinary. Sleep.

Let your breathing do the rest. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. The words can start to blur now.

Waiting is dead time you can spend on this instead.

The end. Sleep well.