The night train (a sleep story), when you need to stop thinking about work — for a racing mind

The story, in full

The window is cool against the side of your face. Every so often the wheels change their note as they cross a join in the rail. Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see.

The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea. There is one other person in this carriage, four rows up, asleep with a coat over their knees. A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

The train left a quarter of an hour ago, and the carriage has already settled into its own quiet. Somewhere ahead of you, a door opens and closes with a soft, deliberate sound.

Your ankles can go loose now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

The seat reclines one notch further than you expected it to. The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery.

Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Sleep. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Nothing here needs following closely. Let the dark be ordinary.

Work thoughts are allowed to be there. They just do not get to drive.

Let everything get quiet, including this.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, cozy.