Spellbound At Bob & Wheel Books | Surrey Alley Sleep Story

Engage with the magic of books in tonight’s Wizarding bedtime story.

In tonight’s story, as the busy back-to-school season winds down in the magical shopping district of Surrey Alley, you close up shop at the beloved Bob & Wheel Books. This evening, you must turn over the bookstore for a new season, magically transforming it from a grand literary emporium to a cozy, intimate shop.

Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Cosmic Dreams by Bruce Brus, Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Engage with the magic of books in tonight's fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of this story and relax into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing breathing exercise for alignment and cleansing.

In tonight's story,

As the busy back-to-school season winds down in the magical shopping district of Surrey Alley,

You close up shop at the beloved Bob and Wheel books.

This evening,

You must turn over the bookstore for a new season,

Magically transforming it from a grand literary emporium to a cozy,

Intimate shop.

Books are a uniquely portable magic.

Stephen King Brightly,

The shop bell tinkles as you step through the front door of Bob and Wheel books.

Not that the dainty sound of the bell makes much impression over the noisy clusters of shoppers.

You return from your break with armfuls of coffees for your fellow booksellers,

Gotten at the cafe just a few doors down.

All of Surrey Alley,

The premier shopping destination for witches,

Wizards,

Warlocks and sorcerers,

Is abuzz today,

And the bookstore is perhaps the busiest of all.

Tomorrow,

Term starts at the School of Sorcery,

Where the world's great wizards train the next generation of magical minds.

And Surrey Alley,

Where every shop is a magic shop,

Is the only place in the country where students can find all their school supplies in one place.

The narrow,

Cobbled street is full of families bobbing in and out of businesses in search of everything from school uniforms and enchanted luggage to wands and potion ingredients.

But there is one thing each and every student needs,

Regardless of the courses they take.

Books.

Lots and lots of books.

For a hundred years,

This shop has been an institution in itself,

The most famed bookseller in the magical world.

Its popularity springs not only from its staggering inventory of volumes,

From the latest releases to rare and valuable manuscripts on magic and alchemy,

But on the shopping experience.

A customer can easily order a book to be delivered to their home,

But still,

Countless people flock to Surrey Alley every year to enjoy the sights,

Smells,

And wonders of this very shop.

To visit Bob and Wheel Books in Surrey Alley is to feel the magic of books all around you.

Light on your feet,

You dance through the crowds of customers,

Passing out warm drinks to your colleagues as you go.

People sigh their gratitude,

They need the energy on a day like this,

With so many last-minute shoppers in a hurry to secure the books on their school lists.

With a hand finally free,

You whip out your wand and give it a gentle wave,

Magically straightening up a display of divination textbooks that's been must from browsing.

And with a smile,

You take your place behind the checkout desk,

Where a moderate line is forming,

And you tap your father on the shoulder.

Oh good,

He says,

You're back.

He hands a freshly-wrapped parcel of books to a smiling witch with two school-aged children,

And sends her off with well-wishes for the year.

You slide in next to him behind the counter,

And signal to customers that you can help as well.

You've been helping around the shop for as long as you can remember.

After all,

Bob and wheel is the family business.

As a young child,

You'd play hide-and-seek in the store,

Purposely getting yourself lost in the stacks on the upper floors.

As you got older,

You'd come home for term breaks at the school of sorcery,

And help with inventory or tidying up after closing.

And more and more,

Your father showed you the ropes,

Let you get involved.

It's always been taken for granted that you would run bob and wheel books on your own someday.

Now that you've finished school,

And your father approaches retirement age,

You suppose that day comes closer and closer.

In general,

You like the idea.

You're not sure you've ever wanted to do anything else.

You love the place,

And the unique satisfaction of pairing people with their perfect book.

At the right time and the right place,

The right book can change a reader's life.

Whether it's a book for wizards,

Or a modern novel,

It has the power to enchant.

In the books that line the shelves of bob and wheel,

There are such wondrous insights,

Spells and stories and potions and histories that connect a legacy of magic.

In the corners of this place,

You've lit your wand to read in the darkness,

Falling into fairy tales,

Biographies of great sorcerers,

And strange grimoires.

The shop is home to countless other worlds,

Each contained within their binding.

And the shop is your home.

Still,

Something nags at you when you think about taking over the store.

All that time you spent studying,

All the magic you mastered in school,

You yearn to practice it,

To continue growing.

You sometimes worry that spending your life here might come with limits to your magical potential.

Yet all summer,

You've stepped up,

Taking on more responsibilities in the store to allow your father to step back.

He trusts you,

Certainly,

But you want him to know,

Beyond a shadow of a doubt,

That bob and wheel is in good hands with you.

To that end,

You discreetly mutter to him that you've got this,

You will take over the customers in line,

And he can head back to take some time to relax.

He gives your arm a gentle squeeze,

As if seeking reassurance that you don't need him.

You smile,

Urging him to go.

More than likely,

He'll find some task to keep himself busy in the back office,

Never one to fully clock out,

But at least he'll get some peace and quiet.

As expected,

The rest of the day passes with little lull in business,

A steady stream of customers always seems to be pouring in through the doors,

Checking off their supply lists for school.

Books fly,

Literally,

Off the shelves as booksellers summon them with their wands.

Shoppers board the enchanted lifts that ferry them to the other floors.

You field questions left and right,

Where to find the illuminated biography of Paracelsus,

Whether you'll be restocking the textbooks for intermediate potion making,

Which translation of the emerald tablet you prefer.

But the buzz and frenzy only make the day whiz by.

Spirits are high all around,

There's the excitement and anticipation of the start of a new school year,

The giddiness of friends running into each other after the long summer holidays,

And,

For you and your colleagues,

The warm promise of a quieter season approaching.

Consider today,

If the past is any teacher,

You'll see a reprieve from the hectic back to school shopping for a few weeks before the winter holiday season hits.

With autumnal weather settling in at last,

And your studies behind you,

You're looking forward to a cozy fall in Surrey Alley.

By the time the shop bell tinkles for the last time,

A fuzzy,

Pleasant exhaustion has settled over you.

It's the feeling of coming home to stillness after a day of constant motion.

Coming to ambient silence after sustained cacophony.

Your father counts out the register as your colleagues finish their closing duties.

A few of them are heading off to school tomorrow.

You help them bundle their own parcels of textbooks before they leave for the night,

And you wish them well in their studies this year.

At least one hopes to come back and work during the holiday season.

Soon enough,

It's just you and dad in the shop.

Outside on the alley,

The street lamps illuminate one by one.

A gentle burst of enchanted fire within the lanterns casts a serene glow through the windows of the shop.

There's still some bustle out on the street,

But the character of it has changed.

While the families trickle out,

Either heading home for the night,

Or off to secure rooms and supper at the Witch's Brew Inn,

Another crowd rolls in to enjoy the picturesque alley at dusk and dinner at the swankier restaurants.

You watch their sweatered silhouettes pass by the window,

Feeling tired but light-hearted.

That's that,

Says your father from behind the counter,

Closing up the register.

A very good day,

I'd say,

Thanks to your help.

He suggests going out to dinner to celebrate.

It's an informal tradition,

After all,

For many of the long-standing Surrey Alley proprietors to meet up at the Witch's Brew on the last night of the season.

You leap at the idea,

This time last year you were packing for school.

A gathering at the Witch's Brew would feel,

You imagine,

Like an initiation,

Like you are truly part of the fabric of Surrey Alley.

But you are already heading back to grab your jacket when your father stops you.

Not just yet,

He says with a smirk.

There's one more thing to do before we wrap up tonight.

You look around,

Confused.

The store looks spotless to you.

Displays have been straightened,

Floors swept,

Shelves dusted.

You run down the long list of closing duties in your head,

And you can't think of anything you've missed.

It's all right,

Your father chuckles.

You didn't forget something.

I dare say you've never had to do this before.

Do what?

You ask.

Well,

Don't you think the shop is a little oversized for the off-season?

You still aren't sure what he's talking about.

This is Bob and Wheel Books,

Home to the largest selection of magic books in the country,

If not the world.

If anything,

You think,

It ought to be even bigger to accommodate all the inventory that remains in the stock room.

I'm going to put on some tea,

Your father says,

Before we get started.

It's time someone other than me learned how to do this.

In the meantime,

Take one last look at the place while it's like this.

You confess yourself bemused,

But as he disappears into the back to put the kettle on,

You do as he says.

What does he mean,

While it's like this,

You wonder?

You'd swear that,

Minus a few new displays and pieces of furniture brought in over the years,

The store looks quite the same as it always has,

At least as long as you can remember.

The first floor is wide and open,

Home mostly to display tables and cases full of newer books and standard texts.

The seven upper floors are more like extended balconies that wrap and overhang the atrium.

These are lined with countless bookshelves arranged according to subject,

Genre,

And interest.

And nestled within the stacks are cozy little reading nooks with comfy chairs and sofas where customers can peruse their selections.

A faceted skylight lets in sunshine during the day.

You always love to see where the rays of light fall as the sun moves across the sky.

In fact,

Many times you've picked your next read by following that light to an illuminated bookcase.

When night falls,

As it does now,

Pink and purple auras shimmer across the store,

Threads of twilight magic.

You smile at the stillness and quiet of the place after the fast pace of the day.

It's uncanny really,

All this space,

All these stories in relative silence,

Such enormity and such emptiness.

The kettle whistles in the back and you instinctively turn toward the sound.

Your eye falls on the framed photograph that hangs behind the counter.

It's always been there,

But you've never really spared it more than a passing glance.

You approach it with curiosity.

It's an old capture,

But like every painting or photograph in the magical world,

Its subjects are free to move about the frame.

The picture is of the inside of Bob and Wheel Books,

Taken nearly a century ago,

And has,

As its subject,

The store's founders,

Your great-great-great-grandparents,

Give or take a generation or two.

Most of the time,

As you pass the photo,

They're seated in armchairs and smiling out of the frame,

Sometimes even giving a little wave.

Tonight,

They're both engaged in reading,

Though the image is too small for you to make out their book choices.

The shop,

You notice,

Looked very different a hundred years ago,

Black-and-white photography notwithstanding.

It's a cozier,

More intimate space,

With low ceilings—evidently,

There was only the ground floor—and shelves upon shelves that appear so laden with books that they sag and lean toward each other,

No doubt held back from falling through some charm or enchantment.

As you smile in on the tranquil scene,

Your father emerges with two steaming mugs of tea.

You catch a whiff of the herbal scent that travels up on the spirals of steam.

Instantly,

Another wave of serene exhaustion washes over you,

And a pang of nostalgia.

The aroma evokes memories of rainy autumn days at home,

By the fire,

Long ago.

Having a chat with the ancestors,

Your father says,

Acknowledging the photograph.

Just getting a closer look,

You respond.

It's hard to imagine the store used to be so small.

Ah,

Just you wait,

He smiles.

You take your cup of tea and blow gently on the steaming surface,

An inquiring look upon your face.

Your father,

At last,

Explains.

At the end of every back-to-school season,

There's a natural ebb in the volume of shoppers who come to the store.

Rather than the frenzied families eager to pick up their school supplies,

Or the holiday gift-givers who will arrive in the colder months,

Bob and Wheel welcomes,

For a time,

A quieter clientele.

Browsers,

Rare book collectors,

And people just looking to while away the hours in the cozy atmosphere of a bookshop.

So for just a few weeks,

Every year,

It's tradition to rearrange the shop in a way.

And tonight,

For the first time,

You're here to learn how.

We'll start at the top,

He says,

Gesturing toward the upper floors as you finish your tea.

Come on.

Interest piqued,

You follow him to the base of a spiral staircase that connects the ground floor with the upper-level terrace.

As you set foot on the bottom stair,

The steps themselves begin to move in their helical fashion,

Transporting you upward.

You glance down as the checkout desk shrinks below you.

You catch flashes of the other floors,

The seemingly endless labyrinths of shelves,

As you go.

And at the very top,

You step off the rotating staircase together.

The topmost floor of the bookstore is dedicated to volumes on magical history,

From books on the ancient origins of alchemy to works that cover the developments of the 21st century.

Your father strides over to the first bookshelf in sight,

Runs a hand along the spines of the books,

And slides one out.

To your confounded amusement,

He sets the book down in the middle of the floor,

Open to a page somewhere in the middle,

And steps away,

Retrieving his wand from a pocket.

Watch carefully,

He says,

Before raising his wand hand.

He speaks an incantation aloud,

And performs an intricate flourish with his wand.

At first,

It doesn't appear that his spell,

Whatever it is,

Has worked.

Nothing seems to have happened,

Though you're not sure what to even look for.

But a moment later,

The atmosphere shifts.

It's hard to describe,

Almost like the air is tightening,

Like its particles are moving closer together.

Then comes the sound,

The rippling crescendo of a million fluttering pages,

And the sensation of wind traveling around you.

Slowly at first,

And then gathering speed,

The books on the shelves of the history floor begin to fall from their places,

Like leaves falling from the trees in autumn.

But they do not land on the floor with a clatter.

Instead,

They come to float,

Hovering inches or feet from the ground.

They bounce along,

Levitating toward your father,

Wand still raised,

Gesturing thoughtfully,

Like the conductor of an orchestra.

You emit a little gasp as you watch the floating books,

One by one,

Dip downward and disappear into the open volume that lies on the floor,

As if absorbed by it.

Book after book cascades from the shelf,

Soaring across the terrace,

And plunging into the open pages,

Hundreds of them,

Of all shapes and sizes.

You catch the flash of gilded edges,

Or the embossed title of a tome,

Here and there.

A hefty volume,

Titled The Life and Works of Merlin,

Whizzes by,

Then a glossy paperback,

On divination in the ancient world.

Before your eyes,

The shelves empty of books,

All of them following the gestures of your father's wand.

And then,

Once every single book has disappeared within,

So too go the shelves,

And the tables,

And chairs that line the history section.

Before you know it,

Not a single thing remains,

Save for that open book,

And yourselves,

On the uppermost floor.

Lowering his wand,

Your father kneels next to the book,

And flips the cover closed.

You are still gaping in awe,

As he picks up the book,

And casually tucks it under an arm.

How did you do that,

You marvel.

An old family enchantment,

Fine-tuned over the generations,

As the store has grown,

He Through years of experimenting with expansion and contraction charms,

My great-grandmother perfected this unique method.

So,

You say,

Everything that was up here,

Every book,

Every chair,

It's all inside there.

He nods.

You puzzle over it in your mind.

You studied expansion magic in school,

Increasing the internal size of various vessels so they can hold more than their apparent volume.

But something like this is far more sophisticated.

A book is not a traditional vessel.

It's just that,

A book.

You can't quite wrap your head around it.

How,

You ask,

How can a book contain all of that?

Ah,

Your father smiles.

That's the trick,

Isn't it?

You see,

Books carry their own unique magic.

Every book already contains a vast world unto itself,

A portal to fragments of the past,

Alternate realms,

Expansive ideas.

All we need to do is dance with that magic.

We need the books to open those portals.

It's a lovely,

Poetic thought,

Books having their own magic.

And come to think of it,

After all these years of hanging around the bookstore,

You've seen plenty of examples of such enchantment.

You recall one summer,

Years ago,

When the whole shop was in a tizzy over a certain grimoire.

The book was filled with spells for confusing one's opponents during duels or magical sports.

Somehow,

Every book sold in its section was later returned with complaints about nonsensical words,

Invisible ink,

And other anomalies.

As it turned out,

The grimoire had managed to influence all the books in its general vicinity,

Spells reaching beyond its pages to confuse the other volumes.

It was ultimately harmless and remedied with some advanced charm work,

But such things are common occurrence in a place like this.

Words have power,

And language can be as integral in spell work as intention.

With so many magically charged words in one place,

Strange things are bound to happen.

But it's simpler than that,

You think,

Because you've yet to learn a spell or hex or charm that can compare with the wonder conjured by a great story.

As an avid reader,

You've traveled throughout time and space many a time without leaving your chair.

You've inhabited the minds of countless characters,

Immersed yourself in the ideas of great thinkers and magical minds.

It's a wizardry available to all.

Have a look,

Your father says,

Handing you the book that contains so much.

It's surprisingly light in your hands.

You allow it to fall open to a random page somewhere in the center,

But instead of printed words across the pages,

You see something else,

Something that takes your breath away.

It's as if you're staring down through a skylight onto a miniscule diorama in three detailed dimensions.

You squint to make out tiny armchairs and a miniature maze of bookshelves.

There,

Contained within the pages,

Is the entire history section of the bookstore.

You let out a chuckle of incredulity.

So,

You say,

Piecing it together,

If I wanted to find a history book now,

Your father finishes the thought,

You'd simply open this and dive right in,

So to speak.

This way,

We can downsize the store to a more intimate experience during the slower months without having any less grand an inventory.

Come on,

I'll show you how to do it yourself.

Together you call up one of the enchanted lifts,

Step onto the hovering platform and ride down one level to the vast section on magical medicine,

Herb and plant lore.

Here,

Your father walks you through the steps to perform that awe-inspiring spell yourself.

You're instructed first to select a book,

Any book that calls to you,

To be the container.

This simple task is harder than it sounds,

Though he assures you any book will do.

You're possessed by the idea that you must choose one of great significance,

After all,

It will be the home of an entire floor,

An entire genre before you're through.

You wind through the shelves,

Wringing your hands for several minutes before you find the right one.

Just the sight of its spine brings back a wave of memories.

It's a medieval text,

10th century,

If you recall correctly.

When you were still in school,

This book was part of your potions final as it contains the recipe for the legendary nine herbs charm.

The ingredients are embedded in a work of old English poetry.

You can still hear the professor's voice in your head from that night.

Potions are poems,

Yes,

You think,

Words have unimaginable power.

You pull the text from the shelf and place it on the floor,

Open to a page in the middle,

Just as your father did previously.

The simplest part,

He explains,

Is learning the incantation.

You practice the combination of words a few times without wands,

Working on your pronunciation until it rolls smoothly off your tongue.

But as with any spell,

The most important thing to master is the intention,

The energy.

For this particular magic to work,

You've got to make a connection with the innate magic of the book,

Invite it to open up and make space.

It may take some time to achieve that connection,

But he assures you,

It will become natural for you.

You draw your wand,

The one that's been with you all these years since you were a first year student gathering your school supplies in Surrey Alley.

Just holding it,

The focus through which you direct magical energy,

Always makes you feel more capable,

Even when attempting magic you've never tried before.

This spell,

You learn,

Is most successful when the caster is relaxed and confident.

You close your eyes,

Take a deep breath,

And as you exhale,

You drop your shoulders away from your ears,

Loosening the muscles of your face.

You straighten your spine and let the breath travel deep into your belly,

Carrying on it the scent of paper and leather and ink,

The scent of stories.

You let your mind go pleasantly blank,

Emptying of all cares and concerns.

And then,

From that fuzzy,

Unfocused space,

You reach out for the book.

Your mind reaches out,

Like one feeling for a door handle in the dark.

Your thoughts send a signal,

Like a song,

Into the ether and await a response.

You think of animals who use echolocation to map their surroundings.

You visualize your thoughts as waves,

Radiating outward from your forehead,

Expecting to bounce back,

But for now,

Nothing seems to happen.

Your thoughts simply continue spiraling into the darkness.

It's alright.

Your father's voice is soft and reassuring.

Take your time.

You realize that you are furrowing your brow,

So you release that tension,

Softening the tightness in your jaw as well.

You scan your body from head to toe,

Searching for any sensations of tension or holding.

You send the breath to soften and untangle those knots,

Like an inner massage.

You visualize your spine wringing out tensions and toxins,

Vertebra by vertebra.

You imagine yourself as a pebble tossed into a river,

Sinking as the water rushes on.

You drop deeper into relaxation as your mind's preoccupations roll on by.

And as you breathe and sink into softness,

You momentarily forget your objective to make contact with the book,

But it's just at the moment you let the objective go that you feel something,

Like an anchor dropped into open water,

Reaching the ocean floor,

A hook and eye meeting to form a secure bond,

A voice calling out into the night,

Followed by an echo.

You feel a sort of tingling in the back of your head,

A rush of familiarity and warmth,

As if you've just reunited with an old friend.

You are not alone.

You and the book are connected.

With your eyes still closed,

You can almost see the bond,

A thread of soft,

Pulsing amber light that connects the tip of your wand to the book that lies open beneath you.

And just as your father instructed,

You push your intention down that thread of light,

Singing down the bond,

Inviting the book to unfold,

To open a portal,

To carry infinite wisdom.

And along the glowing thread,

The book yields its answer,

Yes.

Now you open your eyes,

And with quiet confidence,

You utter the incantation.

The tingling sensation travels from the base of your neck and through your wand arm,

And you move your wand in the same flourish you observed your father perform.

In the momentary pause after you speak,

There is silence,

But you can feel the atmosphere tighten,

And you can feel the souls of a thousand books awake.

Then,

With deliberate gesture,

You encourage the books to abandon their shelves and pass through the portal,

To plunge into the open tome before you.

There is an uncanny sense of power in watching them come,

Falling,

Floating by.

Amused,

You are reminded of an old enchanting folktale in which the apprentice of a great sorcerer bewitched a broom to conduct his evening chores.

There is a thin line,

You think,

Conducting the books about you like the conductor of an orchestra when wielding this kind of power.

Even as the inanimate objects bend to your will,

You pledge reverence and responsibility.

This is a magic that shouldn't be underestimated.

The books and furniture march to the rhythm of your wand,

And soon,

The last piece is absorbed by the open volume.

You lower your wand arm,

And a pleasant buzz settles over you,

The recession of all that magical energy.

It melts through you.

You feel empowered,

Capable,

More so than you ever have.

You close the book and pick it up,

Admiring your success.

A whole world inhabits this small object,

You think.

Your father beams.

This is very advanced magic,

And you've picked it up so easily,

You're a natural.

And so you go,

The two of you,

From floor to floor,

Packing up the inventory and furnishings of all the bookstore's various sections,

From fiction and divination to cryptozoology.

You take turns performing this spell,

And with each outing,

You gain confidence and finesse,

Putting it in your bones.

You feel connected to it as ancestral magic,

A charm created and refined by your own family.

Surely,

As you come into your own,

You'll add your own flavor to the spell,

Letting it evolve with you,

Before passing it on to the next generation.

When at last,

You find yourselves again on the ground floor of the shop,

A steady stream of books levitate behind you like the tail of a kite.

They slot in and take their places on a shelf of featured works and bestsellers near the checkout counter.

So unassuming to think that each of these contains an enormity of literature,

A microcosm ready for any reader to step into.

And then your father raises his wand once more,

Lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

Your gaze follows his.

It's strange to see the emptiness and austerity of the upper floors,

Those usually maximalist alcoves.

The moon peers in through the skylight,

A silent observer flooding the store with pearly glow.

You hear the whisper of another incantation,

And then the view begins to change.

The moon seems to drift higher in the sky,

Further away,

And the empty terraces closer and closer.

For a moment,

You're reminded of Alice after falling down the rabbit hole,

Eating the tiny cake that causes her to grow to a gigantic size.

But that isn't what's happening at all,

You realize.

You are not growing larger.

The store itself is shrinking.

The ceiling drifts closer,

The upper terraces disappearing into the walls.

You watch as,

In a matter of moments,

The enormous emporium narrows and contracts to a mere tenth of its size,

Or smaller,

Folding in on itself like a leaking balloon.

By the time your father lowers his wand,

You stand in the middle of a cozy,

If almost cramped,

Little salon,

Shoulder to shoulder with the shelves,

Which reach nearly to the low ceilings,

And groan under the weight of so many books.

You walk carefully between the shelves,

Exploring the newly narrow boundaries of bob and wheel books.

Though it's far from what you've come to see as the norm,

There's something deeply comforting about this store in this form.

Without the wide open layout,

The books,

The words,

Somehow feel more present,

More alive around you.

You can feel the density of all that magic,

All those stories,

And yet,

Even this smaller,

More intimate space feels mightily capacious.

You're uniquely aware of the infinite doorways,

Ideas,

And universes that surround you.

You linger between the stacks,

Feeling a profound sense of coziness and contentment,

As if you're held by this space,

Carried by it,

Cradled by all the books,

The ideas,

The possible worlds.

You emerge,

Finding your father again,

And sharing in a wordless exchange of satisfied grins.

More than just the appearance of the store has changed,

You reflect.

It's in the air,

The smell,

The feeling,

The charm,

All more concentrated,

More accessible.

Your eyes flick to the photo behind the counter of the store not long after it was founded.

Your ancestors smile out of the frame.

It's like you've stepped back in time,

To a simpler era,

Before Bob and Wheel Books was the prime destination for shoppers,

Readers,

And students,

When it was,

First and foremost,

A place to get lost,

To let yourself be spellbound by the magic of books.

Very few words are exchanged between the two of you as you at last prepare to close up the shop for the evening,

Donning your coats for the onset of the evening's chill.

You take your leave,

Locking up and stepping out onto lamplit Surrey Alley.

You look up at the shop in the warm amber glow,

Its exterior entirely unchanged.

This will be yours one day.

It's more than a bookshop,

It's a proving ground for your magical development.

Your body still hums with the remnants of the magical energy you channeled tonight.

Even as you leave the shop,

You feel a whisper of the bonds you formed with the books within.

These gently tug at you the further you go,

As if to say,

Don't forget me.

We are always connected.

But in truth,

You think,

As you and your father amble toward the witch's brew,

Where a hearty meal will soon be waiting.

It is always like this with books,

Whether you practice magic or not.

A good book answers when you call out to it in the dark.

A good book gets its hooks into you and doesn't let go.

It stays with you through all the changes,

All the seasons of your life,

Its words echoing in your head.

You imagine a web of golden threads,

Thousands of them,

Tethering you to the stories that shaped your childhood,

Your adolescence,

And your sense of self.

Each one a portal,

A doorway to a world of wonder and magic.

Breathe into awareness of the present moment,

Softening the body,

The face,

The mind,

Letting go of anything that came before,

Anything that's still to come.

Right now,

All you need to do is be here and relax.

Bring your awareness to the breath,

Follow its journey throughout the body,

In through the nose,

Traveling down the throat,

Into the lungs,

Deep into the belly,

Filling you up and back out through the nose or mouth.

Slow the breath down and feel yourself relaxing as it deepens.

Notice the quality of your breath,

The temperature of the air as you inhale and exhale,

The exchange you create with your environment.

Feel practice directing the breath throughout the body,

Visualizing the journey of your breath to target energy centers roughly aligned with the chakras along your spine.

Slowly follow along and imagine your breath filling up the spaces I call out,

Lighting them up,

And massaging away tension,

Releasing toxins,

And cleansing your body,

Mind,

And spirit.

Feel free to drift in and out if your body is ready for sleep,

Don't worry if you miss any instructions.

Let go whenever it feels like time to surrender.

Begin by sending the breath to the very base of your spine,

The root of your body.

Follow the journey of your breath all the way to the base of the spine,

Filling that space like a balloon and using it to loosen any tension there.

Exhale.

For a few breaths,

Continue to send the breath to the base of your spine,

Noticing any worries or concerns that arise,

And releasing them on the exhale.

And inhaling a sense of grounding,

Feeling stable,

Centered,

And supported.

Move your awareness up along the spine,

To the sacrum,

Just a few inches below the navel.

Send your deep breaths to fill and massage this space,

Don't make your breaths any shallower,

But alter your intention to direct the breath here,

Visualizing the breath in three dimensions,

Radiating outward from the spine into the low belly,

Loosening any knots of tension or worry that you carry in that space,

Breathing deep,

Flushing out old energy,

Stagnant energy,

Brushing it away and replacing it with warmth,

Vitality,

Creativity,

And joy.

Now let your awareness travel further up along the spine,

To the solar plexus,

Just above the navel.

Send the breath to this plane,

Breathing deep,

Filling up the body,

And exhaling slowly,

Using the breath to relax away tension,

Feeling the energetic exchange,

The alchemy of this center of power and confidence.

Loosen up any thoughts of self-doubt,

And let those be washed away on the breath,

Inhaling a sense of calm empowerment.

Now move your awareness up along the spine to the chest,

Aligned with the heart,

Visualizing your breath expanding,

Radiating here,

Softening your heart,

The symbolic center of compassion and love.

Let the breath ease away any sorrow,

Any tension,

Breathing into deep relaxation,

Self-love,

And connection.

Let in all the love around you,

Summoning it with a deep,

Nourishing breath.

Soften and sink.

Breathe deeply,

Following your breath down the body,

Along the spine,

Through the heart,

Solar plexus,

Sacrum,

And to the base of the spine.

Keep breathing deeply,

Visualizing the breath widening up the energy centers on its way throughout the body,

Continuing to massage away tension,

Loosening emotions,

And clearing away blockages and stagnant energy.

Imagine the breath is flushing toxins from the body through the spinal column,

Releasing everything that doesn't serve you,

Leaving you relaxed and cleansed.

Now let go of the visualization when you're ready,

And simply settle in here,

Letting the body breathe for you,

Let it all go.

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

I love your stories!

A lovely story that helped me get back to sleep.

Beautiful, soothing, refreshing

Good story and good delivery as always.

Thank you for creating worlds to fall asleep in. 💕

Wonderful story and wonderful reading. I enjoyed the body scan worked in so perfectly! Thank you 🙏 Blessings

Connecting With the deep beauty of books, your lush story telling, and incredible therapeutic meditations! Thank you so much… you make insomnia bearable…😳😂❤️🙏🏼

Dear Laurel, where do you get these amazing stories? They're so very entertaining. I could listen to your storytelling literally, for hours & this one was very long... Just awesome thankyou 🙏📚 📚 📚 😊🐈‍⬛🐆🐨🦘

I loved this, I’m so happy that you are back with new stories. 💕

This whimsical story was delightful (as usual!) however, I was asleep 💤 quickly, so only heard a bit! Will listen again! Many thanks and many Blessings 📚 🕊️🌟

Ever consider doing a story in the "Outlander " universe?

So glad to be back at Surrey Alley such a soothing story to listened to it twice today I enjoyed it so much thanks. Hope new baby is doing well x