Hope in a Storm - A Sleep Story

Tonight’s story returns to Hope, who lives a quiet life in her cabin deep in the forest with her dog, Fred, and her cat, Melissa. She is someone who asks very little from the world and has become skilled at enjoying simple, steady things.
Outside, a storm moves through the trees and settles over the night. Rain and wind carry on beyond the walls of the cabin, while inside everything feels warm, contained, and deeply comfortable.
Hope spends the evening by the fire, reading from a life-affirming book that brings calm perspective and gentle encouragement. From time to time, she pauses to write in her journal, noting small thoughts and quiet gratitudes as the storm continues outside.
Fred rests nearby, content in the warmth, while Melissa chooses her own perfect place to settle. The cabin holds all of them in a peaceful stillness that needs nothing added to it.
This is a cozy sleep story about comfort, solitude, and the quiet happiness of being safe indoors while weather passes outside.

Transcript

Hello my friend, Welcome to your sleep story. My name is Stephen Dalton. I'm an Irish storyteller and it's my great privilege to be the voice that you listen to as you go to sleep tonight. Tonight I present to you another story about Hope. If you don't know Hope, Well, She's a woman who lives in a cabin in a forest on her own with her dog Fred and her cat Melissa and she has a life of complete contentment and peace and she is known by a lot of my listeners as the woman who does very little. In tonight's story, Hope will be in her cabin as a storm goes on outside. She will write in her journal and read a book which you will hear read about the peace of being inside when a storm is happening outside. But first, Let's do the relaxation session which will take a few minutes before tonight's sleep story. I'm going to count down from 10 to 1 and as I do, Allow yourself to let go more and more. Ten. Feel the support of the bed beneath you or the floor or whatever you lie upon tonight and beneath what you lie upon, Feel a deeper support, The support of the earth, Our constant support. And as you become aware of that support, See if you can sink into this moment a little more now. Just let go a little more now. To be an anchor of safety tonight, To be a friend, To be a gentle guide, A guide that only ever brings you to safe places, To warm and cozy places, To places that enable and support your sleep. Trust that my voice is a friend tonight. Feel into your body now. Notice where you might still be holding tonight. Notice where you may have, Maybe you feel something in your feet or your thighs, Your chest, Shoulders, Or maybe you're like me and you hold tension in your face. Just see if you can soften a little now. This is a time for kindness to yourself and to your body. The day is whatever has been, Whatever will be, But right now is this moment. Your thoughts can't change what has gone before. Your thoughts can't change what will come tomorrow. Needs rest now. So, As thoughts come and go now, See them for what they are, Thoughts, Then just floating away, Passing through a starlit sky. This is your moment. This is your time. You have earned this moment of kindness to yourself. You deserve to have peace in your life. We all do. So, As you become aware of that fact, As you come to the understanding that we all deserve peace, See if you can settle into this moment a little more now, Letting your body know that it's really time for rest. Peace lives within you. It is a constant friend, Waiting to be found, Waiting to be felt. Where does it live within you? Maybe it's in your heart. Maybe it's in your head. It's up to you to find it, But I promise you it's there. Allow a little gratitude now. Gratitude for the simple things, For your body, For the shelter you have tonight, For the ones you love and who love you, For the beauty and wonder of this world, Of this planet, That you can find. Three. Begin to engage with your imagination now. Begin to see Hope's cozy cabin in the middle of a beautiful forest. It is about to rain and Hope, Fred and Melissa are happily safe inside. Two. Checking in with your body one more time, Finding the places you are holding still and allowing yourself to give in, To allow the tension to ease away. Your body has worked hard for you today. To give it rest. And one. Completely letting go now. As I tell you, Hope stands at the window of her cabin, Her hands wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea and she watches the sky. It has been changing all afternoon. What began as a pale grey morning has slowly deepened into something heavier, Something darker and now the clouds sit low over the tops of the trees like a thick woollen blanket pulled across the world. There is a stillness in the air that she knows well. It is the kind of stillness that comes before a storm. Not an empty stillness, But a full one. As though the forest is holding its breath, Waiting for something it has known was coming all along. She takes a slow sip of her tea. The warmth of it spreads through her chest and into her arms and she feels her shoulders soften. The chamomile is from her own garden, Dried on the porch in the late summer heat and stored in a small glass jar on the kitchen shelf. She can taste the summer in it still, A faint sweetness beneath the calm earthy flavour and it makes her think of warm evenings and long golden light. But that was then and this is now and now is grey and heavy and full of the promise of rain. Later, The cabin is quiet. Fred lies on his favourite rug near the hearth, His chin resting on his front paws, His eyes half closed. Every now and then his ears twitch, As though he too can sense the change in the air. His fur is warm from lying near the fireplace and every so often he lets out a long, Slow breath that makes his whole body rise and fall. Melissa, The cat, Is curled on the armchair, Her body a perfect circle of grey fur, Her tail tucked neatly beneath her chin. She appears to be asleep, Though Hope knows that very little escapes Melissa's attention. Even now, One ear is turned slightly toward the window, As if listening for something only she can hear. The first drop of rain lands against the window with a soft tap, Then another and another. Hope watches as the drops begin to multiply, Each one leaving a tiny trail as it slides down the glass. The sound is gentle at first, Almost hesitant, But within seconds it finds its rhythm, And the soft tapping becomes a steady putter that fills the cabin with a sound that Hope finds deeply, Deeply comforting. It is the sound of the world being watered, The sound of the earth receiving what it needs. She stays at the window for a while, Watching the rain transform everything outside. The trees, Which had been still and silent, Now sway gently under the weight of the water. The leaves glisten, Each one catching whatever grey light remains and turning it into something silver. The gravel path that leads from her porch to the garden darkens as it drinks in the rain, The stones turning from pale to deep brown. And beyond the garden, The forest seems to draw closer, Its edges softened and blurred by the falling water, As though the whole world is being gently wrapped in gauze. The boundary between the garden and the woods, Usually so clear, Has become a soft, Uncertain thing, And Hope thinks how beautiful that is, How the rain dissolves the hard lines of the world and makes everything feel connected. A low rumble sounds in the distance. It is so far away that Hope feels it more than she hears it, A deep vibration that seems to travel through the ground and up through the soles of her feet and into her chest. Thunder. She smiles. There is something about a distant storm that makes her feel safe. Not in spite of the power out there, But almost because of it. The storm is vast and she is small and her cabin is warm and there is a deep comfort in that. The thunder says, The world is wild and the cabin says, But you are sheltered. And between those two truths, Hope finds a kind of peace that she cannot quite explain, But does not need to. Fred lifts his head at the sound, His ears pricking forward. He looks toward the window, Then back at Hope, His dark eyes searching her face for reassurance. She crosses the room and kneels beside him, Running her hand along the soft fur behind his ears, Feeling the warmth of him, The solid weight of his head as he leans into her touch. It's alright boy, She says quietly, Just a storm, Just rain and thunder, Nothing to worry about. His tail gives a slow wag and he lowers his head again, Pressing his nose against her knee. She stays with him for a moment, Feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. And she feels a wave of tenderness for this gentle creature, Who has been her companion through so many quiet days and peaceful nights. Fred has never asked anything of her, Except to be near her. And in return, He has given her something she did not know she needed. A presence, A warmth, A reason to speak aloud in a quiet house. Melissa opens one eye from the armchair, Watching the scene with what Hope imagines is mild amusement. The cat has never been troubled by storms. If anything, The rain seems to make Melissa more content, As though the weather has given her a perfectly reasonable excuse to do what she does best, Which is absolutely nothing at all. Hope catches her eye and smiles, And Melissa blinks slowly in return, Which Hope has always taken as the cat's version of affection. Hope rises and moves to the fireplace. She's already laid the fire earlier in the day, A habit born from years of living out here, Of knowing the rhythms of the sky and what they promise. She has learned to read the clouds the way she once read the city, Quickly and instinctively. And this morning, The clouds told her that warmth would be needed before the day was through, And so the fire has been burning quietly for a few hours now, The wood crackling, Producing a flickering glow that pushes back the grey light filtering through the windows. The fire has its own language, She thinks, Its own rhythm and song, The way it pops and hisses and crackles, The way it sends tiny sparks spiralling upward into the darkness of the chimney. It is a sound she never tires of, Combined with the steady drum of rain on the roof and the occasional distant murmur of thunder. It creates a kind of music, A lullaby, Written by the earth. Hope puts the kettle on the stove for another cup of tea. As she waits for it to boil, She stands at the kitchen window and watches the rain fall over her garden. The vegetable patch is drinking deeply, The lettuces, The tomato plants tied to their stakes, The herbs in their little pots near the back door. All of them seem to lean into the rain, As though welcoming it. The sunflowers, Tall and proud, Even in the grey light, Bow their heavy heads under the weight of the water, Patient and unbothered. A puddle has formed in the low spot near the garden shed, Its surface alive with tiny splashes that appear and disappear in an instant, An endless pattern that repeats and repeats, And never quite repeats the same way twice. A bright flash illuminates the sky for just a moment, Turning the grey world briefly white, And a few seconds later the thunder comes, A deep rolling sound that seems to come from everywhere at once, Filling the sky and the trees and the space between them. Hope counts the seconds between the flash and the sound, A habit from childhood, Her mother taught her that. Five seconds between lightning and thunder means the storm is about a mile away. She counts seven, Still at a distance, Still far out there, While she is in here, Safe and cosy. The cattle begins to whistle softly, And she lifts it from the stove, Pouring the hot water over a fresh teabag in her mug. The steam curls upward, Carrying with it the scent of chamomile, And she breathes it in slowly, Letting the warmth touch her face. She adds a spoonful of honey, Stirring it gently, Watching the golden thread dissolve into the pale liquid. Such a small thing, Such a simple pleasure, And yet in this moment, Standing in her kitchen, While the rain pours down, And the thunder murmurs, And the fire crackles in the next room, It feels like everything she needs. She carries her tea back to the living room. The room is warm, And the light from the flames of the fire casts long, Gentle shadows across the walls. The bookshelves, The worn armchair, The little side table with its stack of well-read books, The old rug, Where Fred now sleeps soundly, All of it glowing in the amber light. The cabin feels smaller in this light, But not in a way that is confining, Smaller in the way that a nest is small, Smaller in the way that a held hand is small, Close and warm, And exactly the right size. Hope sits down in her chair, Pulling a thick knitted blanket over her lap. Melissa, Disturbed by the movement, Stretches and repositions herself, Eventually settling half on the blanket, And half on Hope's knee, Her purring, Immediate and emphatic. Hope rests one hand on the cat's warm back and lifts her tea with the other, Taking a sip as she lets her gaze drift to the window. Through the gap in the curtains, She can see the rain, Silver and relentless against the dark trees, And she watches it fall with a feeling that she can only describe as gratitude. The world outside has darkened further. The clouds are so thick now that it feels more like evening than late afternoon. The rain continues its steady rhythm, And every few minutes, The sky flickers with distant lightning, Followed by the low, Reassuring voice of thunder. Hope feels so cozy in her cabin right now, Each rumble outside of the thunder deepens the sense of shelter she feels within these walls. The storm is doing what storms do, And she is doing what she does best, Sitting, Resting. After a while, Hope reaches for her journal. It sits on the side table where it always sits, Its leather cover soft and familiar beneath her fingers. The leather has darkened over the years, Worn smooth in the places where her hands hold it most often, And the pages inside have yellowed slightly at the edges, Giving the whole thing the feeling of something well-loved and much-used. She opens it, Turning past pages filled with her looping handwriting, Past sketches of flowers and pressed leaves and small observations about the weather, Until she finds a clean page. She picks up her pen, The one that belonged to her mother, And she begins to write. November 17th There is a storm today, A proper one, The kind that makes you want to sit by the fire and not move for hours, Which is exactly what I am doing. I can hear the rain on the roof, Steady and heavy, And every so often the thunder comes rolling in from somewhere over the hills. Fred was a little nervous at first, But he has settled now. He is asleep by the fire, With his paws twitching. I think he is dreaming of chasing something. Rabbits, Probably. He always dreams of rabbits. Melissa is on my lap, Purring as though she invented the sound. She has not moved for the better part of an hour, And I suspect she has no intention of moving for the rest of the day. I envy her sometimes, The absolute commitment she brings to doing nothing. I have been thinking today about what it means to feel safe. Not safe in the way the world usually talks about it. Not locks on doors, Or money in the bank, Or plans laid out for the future. But safe in a deeper way. Safe in the bones. Safe in the breathing. The kind of safe you feel when you stop running from something you were never really running from in the first place. I think for a long time I didn't know what that felt like. When I lived in the city, There was always something. Some noise, A demand, A deadline that made my chest feel tight. Night, Listening to the traffic and the sirens, And thinking that the world was too fast for me. Not that there was anything wrong with the world, Just that I was not made for the speed of it. I was made for something quieter, Something slower. I just didn't know it yet. I remember the year before I found this place. I was exhausted in a way that sleep couldn't fix. I would come home from work and sit in my flat and feel the walls pressing in. Not physically, But in my mind. Everything felt heavy. The to-do lists, The emails, The constant feeling that I should be doing more, Being more, Going faster. I remember one evening I sat on my kitchen floor and cried, And I didn't even know why. I think my body knew before my mind did. It knew I needed to change something. Something fundamental about the way I was living. That I felt like I was disappearing, Coming less and less myself with every day that passed. She told me I needed a holiday. I didn't need a holiday. I needed a different life. I just didn't have the words for it then. And then I found this cabin. Or perhaps it found me. I've written about that before. That wrong turn on the trail. The way the trees opened up and there it was, Sitting in the clearing, As though it had been waiting for me. I know that sounds fanciful, But I believe that sometimes the things we need have a way of appearing when we are finally ready to see them. What I haven't written about, Not really, Is what those first weeks were like, Because they were not easy. People imagine that you move to a cabin in the woods and everything is immediately peaceful, But it wasn't like that at all. The first week, The silence frightened me. I'm not exaggerating. I would lie in bed at night and the quiet felt loud. I kept reaching for my phone to check the time or read the news or message someone, Anyone, Just to feel connected to something familiar. I remember the first night I heard an owl. I didn't know what it was. This low, Beautiful sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. I lay very still and listened. Then slowly, I understood what it was and I laughed at myself. A grown woman, Frightened by an owl. But it wasn't really the owl that frightened me. It was the newness of everything. The strangeness of a world that operated by rules I didn't yet understand. And then, Slowly, Day by day, Something shifted. I started to hear things I had never heard before. Not silence at all, But a whole world of sound. The wind in the trees. Each species producing its own particular whisper. The creek running over stones at the bottom of the hill. Its pitch changing with the weather. The birds at dawn. So many different songs, All layered on top of one another, Like an orchestra tuning up. The creek of the cabin, Settling in the cool night air. My own breathing. The beat of my own heart in the quietness. I remember the first morning I woke up and felt no urgency. No alarm. No list. Just the light coming through the window, And the sound of birds, And the cool air on my face. And the feeling of being exactly where I was supposed to be. I lay there for a long time. Just breathing. Just being. And I thought, This is it. This is what I have been looking for all those years, Without knowing it. That was many years ago now. And yet, The feeling has not faded. If anything, It has grown deeper, Like a tree putting down roots that reach further into the earth with every passing season. Every morning I step out onto that porch, And I breathe in this air, And I feel it again. That sense of rightness, Of being at home, In the truest sense of the word. Not just in a building, But in myself, In the life I have chosen, In the woman I have become. And now, There is a storm outside my window, And I am warm, And the fire is crackling, And my two companions are here with me, And I think, This is what it means to feel safe. Not the absence of the storm, But the presence of shelter. Not the absence of darkness, But the warmth of a small fire. Not the absence, But the fullness of solitude, Freely chosen. I don't know if anyone will ever read these words. I don't write them for anyone but myself. But if someone does find this journal someday, In a dusty corner of this old cabin, I would want them to know this. That it is possible to find peace. That it is possible to build a life that fits you perfectly, Even if it looks nothing like the life you thought you were supposed to live. That the quiet is not empty, That being alone is not the same as being lonely, That a small life, Lived with attention and gratitude, Is not small at all. For this cabin, For this life, For Fred and Melissa, For the rain and the thunder and the fire, For the quiet, For the slow days, For the seasons that come and go, With such beautiful regularity, For all of it, For every single bit of it, Hope sets down her pen and closes the journal gently. She rests her hand on its cover for a moment, Feeling the worn leather beneath her palm, And she lets out a long, Slow breath. Writing always does this to her. It opens something up, And then gently closes it again, Leaving her feeling lighter than before. The fire crackles, The rain falls, The thunder rumbles softly. She sits for a while in this stillness. She feels the warmth of the fire on her face and her hands. She watches Fred's ribcage rise and fall. She feels Melissa's purring vibrate gently against her lap. These are the moments that Hope treasures most, The moments between things, The pauses, The spaces where nothing is asked of her, And she is free to simply exist in the warmth, And the quiet, And the company of those she loves. After some time, She reaches for a book from the small pile on the side table. It is a book she has read before, More than once, But it is the kind of book that reveals something new each time she returns to it, As though the words change, Depending on who she is when she reads them. It is called The Quiet Earth, Meditations on Shelter and Stillness. She opens it to a chapter she has bookmarked with a dried sprig of lavender, And she begins to read. Chapter 7 The Shelter of Rain There is a particular kind of comfort that human beings have known for as long as they have known how to build shelter, And it is the comfort of being indoors while the rain falls outside. It is one of the oldest feelings in our collective memory, A thread that runs through every culture and every age and every kind of dwelling, Connecting us to the very first people who crawled into a cave or huddled beneath an outcrop of rock and listened to the water fall and felt, Perhaps for the first time, That particular warmth that comes from knowing you are dry while the world is wet. We respond to this feeling on a level that is deeper than thought The sound of rain on a roof does something to the nervous system that scientists have only recently begun to understand It is a form of what researchers call pink noise a frequency pattern in which lower tones are slightly louder than higher ones creating a sound that the brain perceives as both rich and deeply soothing Unlike white noise, Which is uniform and flat pink noise mirrors the patterns found in nature itself the rush of a waterfall, The wind through a valley the rhythm of a resting heartbeat Our brains are wired to find these sounds calming because they signal something ancient and essential They signal safety They signal that the world outside is behaving as it should and that we are in a place where we are protected from it When we hear rain falling on a surface above us the brain interprets this as evidence of shelter We are dry, We are enclosed the elements are outside and we are within This simple distinction inside and outside, Shelter and exposure is one of the most fundamental categories of human experience It is written into us at a level far below language In a blanket fort, Understands it instinctively So does a traveller who steps into a warm inn after hours on a cold road So does anyone who has ever sat by a window and watched a storm with a feeling of deep, Inexplicable peace We do not need to be taught this feeling We are born knowing it and it is not only the sound that soothes us It is the dimming of light that accompanies heavy cloud cover the way the world outside becomes muted and soft reducing the visual complexity that our brains must process On a bright, Clear day, The world demands our attention There are details and distances and movements that the eye is drawn to that the mind must interpret and respond to But when the rain falls and the clouds lower and the world beyond our windows becomes awash of grey and green the mind is given permission to rest The horizon closes in the world becomes smaller and in that smaller world we find room to breathe more slowly to think more gently to let go of the constant watchfulness that bright, Clear days seem to require of us Thunder, Too, Plays its part in this ancient choreography of comfort A distant rumble of thunder, Heard from within the safety of a warm room is one of nature's great paradoxes A sound of immense power that, In the right context, Produces not fear, But reassurance The thunder tells us that the storm is real that the forces beyond our walls are vast and wild and ancient and in doing so, It makes the shelter feel more complete more necessary, More deeply good Without the storm, The shelter is merely a room With the storm, It becomes a sanctuary The storm gives the shelter its meaning just as the cold gives warmth its meaning just as the dark gives light its meaning The philosopher Gaston Bachelard wrote beautifully about this in his meditation on the house as a place of shelter and dreaming He observed that the house takes on its fullest meaning when it is set against the hostility of the weather The wind and the rain and the cold are not enemies but collaborators in the creation of comfort They are what give the fire its warmth the blanket its softness the walls their strength and purpose Without them, These things are merely objects With them, They become acts of care The house in a storm is not just a structure It is an embrace Consider the fire A fire is pleasant It is decorative It adds atmosphere and a certain charm But place that same fire in a room while a storm rages outside while the rain drums on the roof and thunder rolls across the sky and it is transformed entirely It becomes essential It becomes a gathering point a source of heat and light that stands in direct and beautiful opposition to the cold and dark beyond the walls Every crack and pop of the burning wood becomes a small declaration You are warm You are safe You are home And the ear that hears these sounds the body that feels this warmth responds with a gratitude that goes deeper than words This is why, Across cultures and centuries human beings have gathered around fires during storms not merely for warmth, Though warmth is part of it but for the feeling that the fire creates A fire watched during a storm becomes a meditation The flames move in patterns that the eye can follow but the mind cannot predict And in this gentle unpredictability the thoughts are given permission to wander and eventually to still And then there is the matter of sound The sounds of a storm heard from within a sheltered place compose what might be called the oldest lullaby in the world Roof, Wind in the trees the occasional crack and roll of thunder the hiss and pop of a fire These sounds, Together create a layered tapestry that the brain finds deeply restful They form a pattern and the human brain, Which spends so much of its waking life scanning for threats and anomalies and things that are out of place can finally relax in the presence of a pattern that it trusts The rain will go on falling The fire will go on crackling The thunder will go on murmuring And in this constancy it finds permission This is perhaps the deepest truth about shelter It is not merely a physical thing It is a state of mind a feeling A permission that we grant ourselves to stop scanning the horizon and to rest in the present moment The walls of a house during a storm do not merely keep the rain out They hold something in They hold in the warmth, Certainly and the light and the dry air that our bodies need But more than that they hold in a feeling that is as old as our species and as necessary as breath itself The feeling of being for now for this moment for this one precious evening safe Hope lowers the book to her lap and lets out a slow breath The words seem to settle into her like the warmth of the fire becoming part of the quiet contentment she already feels She looks at the flames watching them move in their endless unhurried dance and she thinks about what she has just read about shelter about safety about the simple ancient comfort of being warm and dry while the world outside is wild and wet She thinks about how right the author is that the storm does not diminish the comfort it creates it that without the rain and the thunder and the wind the fire would be merely pleasant but with them it is something close to sacred The light continues to fade now as the afternoon has given way to evening The world outside the window has turned from grey to a deep blue and the trees are only silhouettes against the darkening sky and as the evening turns to night and Hope continues to sit in her chair she eventually realises that she is tired not in a heavy way not with the exhaustion of effort or worry but in the way that a long peaceful day can make you tired the kind of tiredness that is really just the body saying it has been nourished by rest and is ready for more it is the tiredness of contentment the tiredness of a day well spent doing very little at all Hope gently lifts Melissa from her lap and sets her on the warm spot she has left on the chair the cat gives a small chirp of protest but settles immediately turning once and tucking her nose beneath her tail Hope stands and stretches feeling her body wake from its long stillness her arms reaching upward her back arching and she moves through the cabin with the quiet efficiency of someone who knows every corner of their home by heart who could navigate it in complete darkness and never put a foot wrong she fills a glass of water from the kitchen tap and drinks it slowly tasting the clean mineral coolness of it she checks the front door though she already knows it is latched she pulls the curtains closed across the living room windows leaving only a small gap through which the last of the evening light filters in Fred stirs as she moves past him lifting his head to watch her with sleepy eyes his tail wags once twice slowly and then he heaves himself to his feet with a long stretch his front legs extended his back arched a yawn so wide that Hope can see every one of his teeth he knows the routine he knows that when Hope moves through the cabin this way touching things closing things the day is drawing to its close she opens the back door briefly to let Fred step outside into the garden then when he comes back in she closes the door and she dries Fred's paws with an old towel she keeps by the step in the bathroom she washes her face with warm water feeling the day gently wash away she brushes her teeth she changes into her night clothes the ones that are faded and worn from years of washing she pulls her hair back from her face and looks at herself in the small mirror above the sink the face that looks back at her is calm content at ease the face of a woman who has spent the day doing exactly what she wanted to do which was nothing much at all and who feels no guilt about it only gratitude she walks to her bedroom the room is small and simple a single bed with a thick mattress and layers of blankets and quilts in soft muted colours cream and pale blues and the faded green of old moss she climbs into bed the sheets are cool at first but they warm quickly around her body and she pulls the blankets up to her chin feeling their familiar weight settle over her like an embrace layer upon layer of warmth and softness each one adding to the feeling of being held being safe being exactly where she belongs Hope closes her eyes she feels the weight of the blankets she feels the warmth of her companions Fred and Melissa now asleep at the foot of her bed she feels the cabin around her solid and sure its old wooden walls and its sturdy roof and its small glowing hearth a shelter built by hands she never knew for a life she could not have imagined and now it is hers and she is its and they belong to each other completely the cabin is quiet now as Hope drifts gently slowly peacefully into a deep and restful