Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train, if you are new to this — for the hours after a late shift
Somewhere between two cities, in the dark, where nobody needs anything from you.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
There is one other person in this carriage, four rows up, asleep with a coat over their knees. The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery. Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see.
The seat reclines one notch further than you expected it to. A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again. The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel your wrists loosen.
Somewhere ahead of you, a door opens and closes with a soft, deliberate sound. Every so often the wheels change their note as they cross a join in the rail.
Your chest can be still now. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let the mattress take all of it.
Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet. The window is cool against the side of your face.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The train left a quarter of an hour ago, and the carriage has already settled into its own quiet. The rhythm underneath you is steady enough to lean on.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your ankles can go loose now.
Let it all get further away. Just the breath.
Leave it there. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Let the room get slightly further away. Softer. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Nothing here assumes you have done this before.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, cozy.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when the weather has kept you inside — for an overtired night, A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for the hours after a late shift or A field under snow, when the day has been loud — for jet lag.