The Story Of The Year | A Gentle Bedtime Story For Sleep

Welcome, dear listener, and Happy New Year! As a new year quietly begins, tonight’s bedtime story feels especially fitting. The Story of the Year is a gentle, timeless tale about the passing of the seasons and the natural rhythm of change, and I hope you like it.

This calming bedtime story is created to help you slow down, release the day, and ease gently into sleep. Whether you’re welcoming the new year with hope, reflection, or simply a desire for quiet rest, this story offers a peaceful place to land.

There is nothing you need to do as you listen — just get comfortable, breathe softly, and allow the story to unfold at its own unhurried pace.

Sweetest dreams, Joanne

Transcript

Hello sleepy ones,

And welcome to this quiet New Year's night.

Tonight I'll be reading the story of the year,

A gentle adaptation of Hans Christian Andersen's tale,

Told softly,

So you can drift into rest.

Before we begin,

Take a moment to get comfortable.

Allow your shoulders to relax,

Your jaw to soften.

As the old year settles into memory,

And a new one begins to rise,

Let your whole body know that this is your time to rest.

And when you're ready,

We'll slip gently into the story.

Late in January,

A fierce winter storm swept through the town.

Snow spun wildly down the streets and alleys,

Pressing against window panes until they were completely covered.

Soft heavy clumps dropped from rooftops,

Sending passersby stumbling into each other for balance.

Carriages and horses were dusted white from head to hoof,

And servants turned their backs to the wind as they rode,

Crouched against the cold.

Foot passengers huddled behind wagons and carts that crept slowly through the deep drifts.

And when two people met on the single cleared path by the houses,

They stood facing each other awkwardly,

No one wishing to step first into the untouched snow.

At last,

By some unspoken agreement,

Each sacrificed one leg and waded sideways into the drift so that the other could pass.

By evening,

The storm grew calm,

The sky appeared scrubbed clean,

Clear,

Tall,

And bright,

And the stars glimmered as if newly minted.

The frost hardened through the night until,

By morning,

Even the sparrows could hop across the crusted top of the snow without sinking through.

They searched for crumbs wherever men had shoveled,

But food was scarce and their tiny bodies shivered in the cold.

To wit,

What a new year this is,

One sparrow complained.

Worse than the last,

We might as well have kept the old one.

Another little sparrow nodded.

Humans were making such noise last night,

Shooting off fireworks,

Smashing things on doorsteps,

Cheering that the old year had gone.

I thought it meant warmer days ahead,

But it's colder than ever.

An older sparrow,

Grey on the top of his head,

Chimed in.

They follow the almanac of theirs,

One of their own inventions,

But nature doesn't listen to human calendars.

The year begins with spring,

And that's how I keep my time.

But when will spring come?

The others asked.

When the stork arrives,

Said the old one,

But who can say when that will be?

Humans in town know very little about such things.

Better to go out into the country.

Spring will be nearer there.

A quieter sparrow,

Who had been chirping without saying much,

Finally spoke up.

Well,

You may fly out to the country if you like,

But I have a comfortable arrangement here in town.

A family has built several flowerpots into the wall,

With openings big enough for me and my mate to nest.

They even throw out breadcrumbs,

So yes,

We're unhappy too,

But we'll stay where we are.

The rest fluttered their wings,

And decided to fly out to the fields,

Hoping that spring might show itself sooner there.

Out in the countryside,

Winter was even harsher.

The cold winds swept over the wide white fields.

A farmer rode bundled in his sleigh,

Slapping his arms across his chest for warmth,

While his horses trotted briskly,

Steaming in the frigid air.

The sparrows hopped along the frozen ruts,

Shivering as they cried,

"'Twit!

How long until spring?

" Too long,

Came a deep voice,

Rolling across the snowy slope.

At first it sounded like an echo,

But as the sparrows looked around,

They noticed an old man seated atop a high snowdrift.

A figure,

White from head to toe,

With pale hair,

Pale beard,

And bright cold eyes.

"'Who is that?

' the sparrows whispered.

An old raven perched on a gatepost answered,

For he was wise and not too proud to speak with smaller birds.

"'That is winter,

The old man of last year,

' the raven told them.

"'He is not dead,

Whatever the almanac says.

He remains here as guardian to the little prince spring,

Who is soon to come.

'" A week passed,

Then another.

The woods stood dark and still.

The lake frozen flat and heavy like cold metal.

Low,

Icy mists hung over the land,

And the great black crows flew silently overhead as if all of nature were sleeping.

Then one day,

A single sunbeam pierced the clouds and glinted across the lake like molten silver.

The snow in the fields no longer shone brightly,

Yet winter still sat unmoving on his snowy throne,

Gazing steadily toward the south.

He did not notice that here and there the snow seemed to sink,

Revealing the tiniest patches of green where sparrows eagerly gathered.

"'Tweet,

Is it coming?

Is spring coming?

' The word carried like a song through woods and meadows,

Spring.

From the south,

Two storks appeared,

Flying gracefully through the sky.

On the back of each rode a beautiful child,

A boy on one,

A girl on the other,

And as their feet touched the earth,

White blossoms sprang up beneath the snow.

Hand in hand,

The children approached winter and pressed themselves gently against him greeting.

At once,

A thick mist swirled around them and hid the scene from sight.

Then the wind swept in,

Clearing the veil of fog with powerful gusts,

And warm sunlight poured across the land.

Winter had vanished.

The children,

Spring itself,

Now sat upon the throne of the year.

"'That is what I call a new year,

' said one of the sparrows.

Now,

At last,

We may expect our rights again.

' Wherever the two children walked,

Buds burst from branches,

Grass grew brighter,

And every field took on a tender green.

The little girl carried an apron filled with flowers,

And no matter how many she scattered,

Her apron was always full again.

She tossed white blossoms over apple and peach trees so that they bloomed even before their leaves appeared.

She clapped her hands,

And the boy clapped his too,

And suddenly birds seemed to pour from the sky,

Singing,

Spring is here.

Even the older folk stepped outside to feel the warmth on their faces,

Smiling at the golden flowers swaying in the meadows as they had in their youth.

The forest stood poised with dark green buds.

Violets,

Anemones,

Primroses,

Cowslips,

All burst forth.

The ground became a soft embroidered carpet where the bride and bridegroom of Spring sat together,

Laughing,

Singing,

And growing.

A gentle rain fell,

But they felt only joy as they kissed each other,

And the forest opened in full green splendor.

Hand in hand they walked beneath fresh leaves that glowed with purity,

While every brook danced over pebbles with bright happy music.

Even the cautious willows kept wooly gloves over their blossoms,

A bit fussy and over-careful it seemed.

Days passed,

Weeks passed,

And the heat of summer deepened.

Warm waves moved through the fields as the corn ripened to gold.

The white lotus spread its large green leaves over the still lakes,

Offering shade to the fish below.

On the sunny side of the wood,

Where roses glowed on the farmhouse wall and cherries hung black and sweet,

Sat the Queen of Summer,

The same young bride who had once walked in Spring.

She gazed upward as heavy blue-black clouds gathered like mountains across the sky.

Nature held its breath,

Birdsong stopped,

Wind stilled,

Even the reeds in the marsh stood motionless.

Then,

A brilliant flash,

As though the sun had burst open,

Followed by rolling thunder.

Rain poured in sheets,

Light and darkness trading places in quick succession.

Grass and corn were bent low,

Drenched and beaten,

Yet soon the storm softened.

Rain dwindled to drops,

And sunlight returned.

Pearls of water sparkled on every leaf,

Birds sang once more,

Fishes leapt in the streams,

And tiny gnats danced in the warm glow.

Out on a rock by the sea,

Sat Summer himself,

Strong-limbed,

Refreshed from the storm as the whole world revived around him.

Cloverfields breathed sweetness.

Bees hummed near the old altar stone,

Glistening after rain.

The queen bee flew out with her swarm to make waxen honey.

Only Summer and his mighty bride saw this offering,

For it was presented quietly,

Nature's own Thanksgiving.

The evening sky shone like pure gold,

And between the glow of sunset and sunrise,

The moon cast silver light.

It was truly Summer.

More days passed,

More weeks slipped by.

The sickles of the harvesters shone in the fields,

Apple branches bent under red and golden fruit,

And hops filled the air with sweet fragrance.

Under hazel bushes,

Heavy with ripe nuts,

Summer rested beside his queen,

Now quieter,

More thoughtful.

What riches surround us,

She said softly,

And yet I long for rest,

A quietness I cannot describe.

She looked toward the storks gathering to depart,

Those same birds who had carried her to this northern land when she was but a child of spring.

I ache for my first home,

She whispered.

Then see your wish,

Said Summer,

And he raised his arm.

At once,

The forest blazed with red and gold.

Rose hips shone bright,

Elder branches bowed with dark berries,

Chestnuts dropped from their husks,

And violets bloomed again among the leaves.

But though the world glowed beautifully,

The queen of the year grew paler,

Quieter still.

It grows cold,

She murmured.

The night spring mist,

I long to return.

One by one,

The storks flew away,

And she reached out her hands to them.

She looked to their empty nests,

Now sheltering a cornflower in one and yellow mustard in another,

And the sparrows hopped around them,

Saying,

To wit,

Where are the gentle folk?

They've flown from the wind,

A pleasant journey to them.

The leaves turned yellow,

Fell one by one,

And the storms of autumn swept through the woods.

On the fallen leaves lay the queen of the year.

Her eyes lifted gently toward the shining stars.

A gust of wind whirled the leaves up and let them fall again,

And she was gone.

Only a single butterfly,

The last of the year,

Fluttered through the cold air.

Mists thickened,

Cold winds blew,

And long dark nights arrived.

The king of the year stood there,

His hair white as snow,

Though he believed it must be the flakes falling from the sky.

A thin cover of snow lay across the fields,

And the church bells rang for Christmas.

The birthday bells,

He said,

Soon the new king and queen of the year will be born,

Then I shall rest among the stars.

In a green firwood covered with snow,

The angel of Christmas blessed the young trees that soon would adorn his feast.

Joy in every home,

Said the old king,

Beneath the green boughs.

His voice was faint,

His time nearly finished.

Your power still remains,

Said the angel,

Though not your rest.

Let the snow keep the seeds warm.

Learn to endure honor being given to another while you still reign.

Learn to be forgotten,

And yet continue faithfully.

Your freedom will come with spring,

And when will spring come,

Winter asked?

When the stork comes.

So Winter sat high upon the snowy hill,

Bent,

Cold,

White-haired,

Yet strong as ice.

The ice cracked deep,

The snow creaked beneath Skater's feet,

And ravens and crows stood stark against the white world.

Still no wind stirred,

And Winter kept watch.

Then one morning the sparrows flew from the town again and asked the raven on the post,

Who is that old man?

That,

The raven replied,

Is Winter,

The old man from last year.

He is not dead,

Whatever the almanacs say.

He is guardian to the spring that is coming.

When will spring come,

Chirped the sparrows.

When it does,

We will have better times.

Winter only listened in silence,

As he looked upon the dark bare trees,

Each branch revealed in perfect form.

He dreamed of his days of strength,

Of youth,

Of summer warmth,

And during the night,

Mist from the clouds settled on the forest and froze into glittering horror frost.

By the time the sun rose,

The branches shone silver,

And the frost melted gently in the growing warmth.

When will spring come,

The sparrows called.

Spring,

Echoed the hills softly.

Then the sun grew warmer,

The snow shrank,

And birds filled the air with song,

Spring is coming.

High above,

The first orc flew,

A second followed,

A beautiful child sat upon the back of each.

They drifted down to the open field,

Kissed the earth,

And kissed the old silent man.

And like a mist lifting from the mountain,

Winter vanished.

The story of the year was complete.

And as the story of the year comes to a close,

May its turning seasons bring you peace,

A gentle reminder that every ending gives way to something new,

And every winter carries the promise of spring.

Sweet dreams,

Dear one.

Sleep well.

Reviews

Thank you so much, you have exposed me to another beautiful story in your calming voice.💐🎶🕊️❤️

Thank you , Joanne! So relaxing and I was asleep quickly. Happy New Year! ❤️

What a beautiful nature story for the new year. I was asleep by the end. Thank you, Joanne.