Hello lovely human.
My name is Linz and I will be your guide tonight.
Welcome back to the village of flow.
Calm.
Still.
A space for busy minds and tired bodies to rest deeply.
Tonight the village is quieter than usual.
A fine mist has settled itself across the cobbled streets.
Softening the glow of the lanterns and blurring the edges of the shop windows along the square.
Somewhere in the distance,
The old clock tower is already waiting for us.
Its warm golden face glowing softly above the rooftops.
Tom will soon be there.
He's waiting for us with his coat pulled close and an old backpack resting comfortably against his shoulders.
Inside it,
Tucked besides a notebook and a woollen scarf,
Is a flask of tea he made before leaving home.
As always,
There is no pressure to fall asleep tonight.
Deep rest might be exactly what the body needs.
My voice may drift in and out of your awareness and that's okay.
There's nothing to keep up with here.
Nothing you need to remember.
Just allow yourself to rest.
Before we join Tom,
Let's get comfortable.
If you've not done so already.
Close your eyes.
Take a breath.
And let yourself rest.
Allow the body to settle a little more heavily where you are now.
Maybe shifting the shoulders slightly.
Loosening the jaw.
Adjusting the hips or the legs until things feel a fraction softer.
A fraction easier.
Notice the surface beneath you.
The way it rises patiently to meet the weight of the body.
The head.
The shoulders.
The arms.
The Bat.
The chest and belly.
And the like.
You don't need to hold yourself together anymore.
Let the surface beneath you do that for you.
And now take a slower breath in.
.
.
And a longer breath out.
Repeating that a few times if it feels good to your body.
Allowing the exhale to leave gently.
The body already knows how to rest.
Sometimes it simply needs a quiet place to do it.
Let's begin our journey.
Tonight we are following the lantern path towards the old village clock tower.
The path begins at the edge of the square,
Just beyond the bakery where the last traces of warmth still linger in the night air.
The lanterns glow low beneath the trees.
Small amber pools of light stretching quietly into the dark.
Tom steps beneath the first lantern and pauses for a moment,
Listening to the village settling around him.
A distant door closing.
The faint rattle of somebody pulling curtains shut upstairs.
The soft scrape of a chair being moved across an old wooden floor.
And quiet again.
The kind of quiet that arrives slowly,
The world lowering its voice.
Tom adjusts one strap of his backpack,
Feeling the familiar weight of it settle between his shoulders,
And he begins walking.
The path beneath his boots is slightly damp from the earlier rain.
Gravel pressing softly underfoot.
Every now and then,
A small patch of wet leaves gives a gentle,
Satisfying crunch before disappearing back into stillness.
The lanterns sway slightly overhead.
A small sway.
Just enough to notice.
Lie.
Shadow.
Light again.
Further along the path,
The village clock begins to chime the quarter hour.
The sound carries slowly through the mist.
Tom has always liked the clock tower at night.
By day,
People barely notice it anymore.
It stands in the middle of the village square,
Quietly being,
While everyone rushes around beneath it,
Carrying cups of coffee and shopping bags and thoughts that probably don't need thinking about quite so urgently.
But at night.
The tower feels different.
Older somehow.
Wiser even.
The lantern path curves gently around the edge of the square now.
Leading him towards the tower steps.
Ivy climbs the old stone walls in the dark,
Twisting lines,
Disappearing beneath the clock face high above.
From here,
The windows glow softly amber,
Inviting tired villagers to take shelter.
Eventually.
Tom reaches the heavy wooden door and places one hand against the cool iron handle.
The metal carries the faint chill of the evening air.
When he pushes the door open.
The warmth meets him.
A soft warmth of old stone holding on to the day.
Inside the tower smells faintly of cedarwood,
Dust,
Old books,
And something quietly metallic beneath it all.
Brass,
Perhaps,
Or the old clock mechanism itself turning steadily somewhere above.
The door closes with a low wooden thud.
The click of the latch behind him signals the day is now done.
Outside fades away.
The tower holds quiet differently from the rest of the village.
Thicker somehow.
As though the stone walls soften every thought before they fully arrive.
Ahead of him,
The spiral staircase curves upwards around the inside wall.
Small lanterns sit in the alcoves at intervals along the steps.
Their golden light catching against the worn edges of the stone.
Tom begins climbing slowly.
Staircase forces a slower pace here.
Step.
10.
Step.
The old wood beneath the lanterns give the occasional quiet creep.
Further above,
Hidden somewhere in the tower walls,
The clock mechanism moves slowly.
Pause.
Pause.
The sound follows him as he climbs.
A rhythmic lullaby for the soul.
Halfway up.
Tom pauses besides one of the narrow windows cut into the stone.
The village stretches quietly below him now.
Lanterns glowing along the paths.
Mist drifting beneath the rooftops,
A faint silver ribbon of river beyond the trees.
From up here,
Everything seems softer around the edges.
The clock continues behind the walls.
Pause.
Near the top of the staircase.
The air grows warmer.
The lantern light,
Gentler.
The final steps open into the clock room itself.
It is round and softly lit.
With huge wooden beams crossing the ceiling above.
The four clock faces.
Glow pale against the night outside.
Each one looking out over a different part of the village.
And in the center of the room.
It's the mechanism itself.
Large brass wheels.
Dark iron pendulums.
Heavy chains disappearing into the floor below.
Everything moves perfectly,
Slowly,
Together.
The whole room breathes with it.
Pause.
Tom stands quietly for a moment,
Watching the pendulum swing back and forth.
Back and forth,
Back and forth.
And full.
The movement is almost hypnotic in the low lantern light.
The same gentle rhythm repeating over and over in the warm stillness of the tower.
Besides the nearest window.
Sits an old armchair.
Deep green fabric.
Softening with age.
A thick,
Heavy wool blanket folded carefully across one arm.
A small table besides it.
Tom slips his backpack from his shoulders and places it on the floor besides the chair.
The fabric gives a soft,
Familiar rustle as it lands He takes his coat off next.
Folding it once over the back of the chair.
And eases himself down.
The cushions sink beneath his weight with a long,
Soft sigh.
The sound seems to settle something inside of him.
Tom stretches his legs out slightly and pulls the blanket across his lap.
The wool is heavy.
And warm,
And still carrying the faint smell of cedar from wherever it was stored.
Outside the clock face nearest to him,
The mist drifts lazily through the square below.
Village lights blur softly through the old,
Uneven glass.
The tower clock ticks steadily besides him.
Pause.
The brass pendulum swings through the lantern glow.
And full.
And full.
Back and forth.
After a while.
Tom leans down towards his backpack.
Slowly.
.
.
.
.
Without rushing.
He unfastens the buckle.
The small leather strap gives way with a soft tug.
He opens the flap and reaches inside,
Past the folded scarf.
And the corner of his notebook.
Until his fingers find the smooth metal side of the flask.
It's still warm.
He draws it out carefully and rests it on the small table beside the chair.
Flasky's dark blue,
Dented slightly near the base from years of being taken on walks.
Tom unscrews the lid with a quiet twist.
Then another.
The faintest release of steam rises into the warm tower air.
He turns the lid upside down to make a cup and pours slowly.
The tea makes a soft,
Hollow sound.
As it fills the metal cup.
Thin ribbon of steam drifts upwards carrying the smell of breakfast tea and a little honey.
Tom sets the flask down carefully.
The metal base touches the table with a small,
Dull tap.
He wraps both hands around the cup.
Warmth moves into his palms.
He just holds it for a while,
Close to his chest.
The clock continues.
Tick-tock.
Pause.
Outside,
Somewhere far below,
The late door closes softly in the square.
Then stillness again.
The tower creaks once around him.
Tom lifts his cup and takes a slow sip.
He settles deep into the chair.
The blankets rest heavily across his legs.
The chair curves softly around his shoulders.
The small lamp besides the table glows lower,
Lighting only small parts of the room now.
The edges blur gently into the shadow.
The mechanism continues its patient work in the center of the tower.
Pause.
One of the brass wheels turns almost silently against another.
As so.
Metally.
And stillness again.
Tom notices the way the light catches across the edges of the moving gears.
Gold against the dark iron.
Small reflections appearing.
And disappearing.
With each slow turn.
Outside the glass.
The mist thickens further across the village.
The bakery sign sways faintly below.
A lantern near the fountain flickers once in the breeze.
And steadies again.
Tom rests his head back against the chair.
Only the slow movement of the clock.
Only the warmth of the blanket.
Only the soft glow of the lantern light against the old stone walls.
The pendulum swings.
By and for.
Back and forth.
Tom watches until the movement begins to soften at the edges.
Everything blending gently together now.
The ticking.
The pause.
The lantern glow.
The blanket resting across his lap.
The deep chair beneath him.
Even his breathing has slowed to match the tower somehow.
Slow in.
Longer out.
Outside,
The rain begins softly against the clock face windows.
At first,
Only a few scattered drops.
And more.
A quiet silver tapping against the old glass.
The sound wraps itself around the ticking.
A soft,
Rhythmic layer against the stone.
Rain.
Breathe.
Pause.
The tower feels even warmer now,
With the rain moving around it.
Tom watches droplets slide slowly down the glass opposite him.
The rain softens again.
Becoming little more than a hush around the stone walls.
Tom's eyes close.
Tower asks nothing of him tonight.
Only this quiet room.
High above the sleeping village.
Only the chair.
A blanket.
The rain.
The pendulum moving slowly through the lantern light.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
And little by little.
The edges of the room begin to soften further.
The lantern light turning deeper amber now.
The breath's wheels slowing into a blur and a shadow.
A ticking,
Gentler somehow.
Further away.
Village below,
Disappearing almost entirely beneath the mist.
And rain.
And darkness.
And after a while.
Or perhaps quite a long while.
Even time itself seems to loosen slightly around the edges.
And somewhere between one slow breath.
And the neck.
Tom Drift.
The clock keeps watch above the village.
The lanterns continue glowing softly below.
And the old tower carries the night gently onwards around him.
I'm going to drift now.
You can stay for as long as you need.
Or drift to.
Rest well.
Lovely human.
