Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train, when you have just finished work — for a night when you do not want to think
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
Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see. Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet. A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again.
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. Somewhere ahead of you, a door opens and closes with a soft, deliberate sound.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
There is one other person in this carriage, four rows up, asleep with a coat over their knees. The window is cool against the side of your face.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea. Every so often the wheels change their note as they cross a join in the rail.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
The rhythm underneath you is steady enough to lean on. The train left a quarter of an hour ago, and the carriage has already settled into its own quiet.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The train left a quarter of an hour ago, and the carriage has already settled into its own quiet. Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea. The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery.
If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your ankles can go loose now.
Let your breathing do the rest. Stay with the weight of your body.
Let the next part go past without you. Let them. Almost nothing to do now.
Slower now. They will find their own way out. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
The gap right after work is the easiest one to use.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, cozy.
If this story does not settle you, try A field under snow, when you have tried everything else — for a restless night, A caravan by the sea, if you are fitting this around other people — for the hours after a late shift or An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for winding down.