The Rainy Day Library | Sleep Story With Music

In this bedtime story accompanied by ambient music, you’re cooped up at home on a rainy day when you notice a strange light shining from beneath your closet door. You open it to reveal the entrance to an enormous, otherworldly library. When you open the books, you’re transported to the book’s setting: the streets of Sherlock Holmes’ London, the pirate ship of Long John Silver, and classic fairy tales. Ends with a meditation & sleep countdown.

Music:
Clairvoyance (Syntropy)
The Sleep/Binaural Overlay/Romeo Alpha (Joseph Beg)
Bream Focus Beta Waves/Nordic Sunrise/Thymotic Moments (Bruce Brus)
Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Escape into a magical library on a rainy day in tonight's fantasy sleep 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.

Escape 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 when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and settle into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a soothing visualization exercise.

In our story tonight,

You're cooped up at home on a rainy day,

Longing to escape the ennui when you notice a strange light shining from beneath your closet door.

You open it to reveal the entrance to an enormous,

Otherworldly library.

Amazed,

You explore the stacks,

Pulling down your favorite books.

When you open them,

You find you're transported to the book setting,

And you visit the streets of Sherlock Holmes' London,

The pirate ship of Long John Silver,

And the fairy tale imagination of Hans Christian Andersen.

Books break the shackles of time.

Proof that humans can work magic.

Carl Sagan.

Another hour ticks by slowly,

With your eyes fixed on the subtle reflection and shadow play cast by the rain-coated windows on the carpet.

The unpredictable flicker and flow of the light and liquid is as good a source of entertainment you think as anything else available to you now.

The power has been out since this afternoon,

And there's little hope of it coming back on before the storm passes.

Solitaire quickly lost its appeal,

And when you went to the cupboard to fetch a book,

You discovered a substantial leak that soaked through your modest library.

You cleaned it up the best you could,

And set up a bucket to catch the drops.

There's not much else you can do now,

But wait out the storm.

You lie back on the couch,

And trace the drops of rain on the window with a lazy hand.

What did people do for fun in the days before electricity,

Before television and video games?

They read books,

You think with a sigh.

And spent time outside,

Of course.

You briefly entertain the notion of running outside,

Allowing yourself to become absolutely soaked,

Letting your shoes and socks fill with rainwater and fresh mud,

Just for the satisfaction of coming back inside,

Wrapping yourself in a blanket,

Giddy with mischief.

But then,

The prospect of showering off the rain and mud in a pitch black bathroom doesn't sound as appealing.

You pull a wool blanket around your shoulders anyway.

Despite the unassailable boredom,

There is a certain coziness to the situation.

You've lit some candles in the living room.

It's ostensibly still daytime,

But the density of the rain and heaviness of the clouds have settled a kind of artificial evening on the neighborhood.

The flickering lights cut through the dim.

You feel pleasantly enclosed,

As though the rain has wrapped its arms around you.

It's ironic how trapped you feel how much you long to break out of the cage of the house and yet how comfortable it is to be here,

Safe,

Warm and dry.

Carrying this little spark of solace,

You resign yourself,

Somewhat placidly,

To counting backwards from 100.

That should pass some time.

99,

98,

97.

Your mind wanders as you imagine what your neighbors are doing.

94,

93.

Do they have board games set up?

90,

89,

88,

87.

Surely someone on the block has an auxiliary generator.

84.

They're probably catching up on TV reruns or tuning in to a sporting event in some distant city that's not under siege by rain.

86,

85.

Wait a moment,

You've messed up the count.

Where were you again?

79,

78,

77.

It doesn't matter.

This might be an even more tedious way of passing the time than watching the raindrops gather on the window.

You stand up and shake out your limbs,

Roll your shoulders,

Stretch your arms way up overhead and feel your spine elongate.

An involuntary yawn swells in your throat and lungs,

Making your eyes water just a little bit.

Maybe you'll make yourself a snack.

But on your way to the kitchen,

Your attention is caught by a faint glimmer of light from under the door to the coat closet beneath the stairs.

You stop to look at it,

An expression of puzzlement crossing your face.

The power's out.

Why is there a light on in the closet?

Even stranger still,

There's only a bare white bulb in the closet anyway.

The light you observe emanating from under the door has a pale,

Bluish tint to it,

And it seems to move,

To ripple slightly,

Almost like it's catching glints of sunlight through an aquarium.

A brief and amusing image comes to mind.

You picture yourself opening the closet door to release a tidal wave,

An epic flood,

And on it,

Fish and starfish and all the debris of civilization.

But no,

The more likely explanation is that years ago,

You stashed some battery-operated lamp from a gift exchange in the back of the closet,

Or some music box,

And forgot about it.

In all the commotion of the storm,

It's just been jostled loose and turned itself on.

Whatever is producing the light could be useful while you wait for the power to be restored.

So you reach for the doorknob.

You expect to see hangers of coats and scarves,

Old winter boots,

An assortment of hats,

All stuffed in there in organized chaos,

As you like to call it.

And peeking through the gaps,

You expect to see the wallpaper you pasted yourself when you first moved in,

The Art Nouveau poppies with curly Q stems.

But that's not what you're about to see.

Not in the slightest.

As you twist the knob,

Unstick the imperfectly fitted closet door and swing it wide,

Your jaw drops.

Instead of a tiny,

Musty coat closet,

You reveal a most marvelous expanse.

The chamber stretches out further than you can see.

There's a soft,

Low light over the scene,

But enough illumination to make out the miraculous.

Before you are floor to ceiling shelves,

A labyrinth of stacks,

Overladen tables,

Chaises and armchairs.

And covering every shelf,

Every chair,

Every table,

Are huge,

Incalculable quantities of books.

A massive,

Round column wide as a redwood tree stands in the center of the chamber.

At first glance,

It appears to be made of some multicolored granite material.

But a moment later,

You realize it's constructed of books,

Laying on top of one another like bricks,

Spiraling upward into a rapturous infinity.

Your eyes follow the tower of books to the ceiling,

High as a cathedral's,

And vaulted as such.

You drink in the spectacle of it,

Frozen to the spot with wonder.

The decorated floor details reveal themselves.

Vines reach from the floors and climb the stacks of books,

Flowering here and there with blue and white and pink blossoms.

Flickering candles illuminate nooks and crannies that look oh so inviting.

Quilts and cushions and everywhere,

More books.

More books than you've seen in all your life or in your wildest dreams.

You realize now you've been holding your breath and you let go a full exhale.

Your eyes sparkle with awe.

Did you fall asleep counting raindrops?

Is this a dream?

You reach over and pinch your own forearm.

It's no dream.

Only now you realize that just at the closet's threshold,

Or the threshold of the magnificent library before you,

There's a wafer-thin barrier.

It has a translucent silver-blue sheen to it,

And it sparkles in the light,

Moving organically like breath.

It must be what was causing the strange,

Bluish light beneath the doorway.

You reach out to touch it,

Expecting some resistance,

But you find that your fingers pass straight through.

There's a cool,

Watery sensation where your hand meets the barrier.

Well,

You think,

You could hardly ask for a better way to pass the time.

Without hesitation,

You plunge through the barrier,

Letting the watery pins and needles sensation wash over you for just an instant.

The light in the library is still soft,

But past the barrier it's warmer and more welcoming.

You look back at the doorway.

You can still see your living room,

Dim and blue in the wake of the storm.

If you tilt your head,

You can even see the heavy rain falling against the window over the couch.

But the sound of the storm is gone.

In its wake there's an echoey,

Cavernous silence that makes you feel simultaneously very small and very safe.

You find yourself gliding through the space,

Almost without intention,

And running your hands across the covers of books,

The backs of armchairs,

Just to ensure it's all real.

The soft texture of a green velvet chair slung with chunky knitted blankets is so pleasing it sends a shiver down the back of your neck.

It's all too lovely,

Too cozy,

Too perfectly imperfect to be real.

And yet,

Here you are.

You approach the towering column of books at the center of the library,

Mesmerized by the subtle patterns created by the spines winding from the floor to the ceiling.

Coming closer,

You realize there's a cutout in the tower,

Like a window,

Right at shoulder height.

You stick your head and shoulders through it and look up toward the ceiling.

You audibly gasp.

Reaching upward beyond your line of sight is a swirling,

Sensational tunnel.

Gentle golden light streams in at various points above you.

No doubt from other windows,

Like the one you peer through.

From here,

All the books lose detail,

Lose any definition in where they end and the next begins,

Instead surrendering to an illusion of infinite motion,

Grand and sweeping.

A kaleidoscope.

Catching your breath,

You emerge from the tunnel window.

There's so much more,

Too much more to observe within the library.

You feel you could spend a lifetime discovering little wonders and large wonders here in this magnificent hall,

Let alone one afternoon of stormy weather.

But you're also itching to settle into one of these cozy nooks,

Curl up under a blanket and pour yourself into a book.

Though from what it looks like,

You have all of literary history to choose from.

Wherever will you start?

You attempt to decipher the system by which the library is organized,

But like you,

It seems to function under its own,

Inscrutable logic.

Organized chaos.

There are piles of books that rest,

Disheveled on tabletops,

Apparently cast off casually by the library's last visitors.

But when you examine one of the piles,

You find that the titles of all the books lying there begin with the letter C.

The Catcher in the Rye.

Coraline.

A Christmas Carol.

Cold Comfort Farm.

Another table,

Laden with books which you expect might all start with W or something,

Seem to have only one thing in common.

They're all about young people who fall into magical new worlds.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

The Phantom Tollbooth.

You smirk,

Thinking how appropriate this collection is to your current circumstances.

You take to the stacks,

Overwhelmed by choices,

And find that the books are not alphabetized by title or author,

No Dewey Decimal Codes,

Nor do they appear to be arranged by subject or theme.

Each shelf,

Like each table,

Conforms to a different organizational system.

There are,

For example,

A series of shelves where the book jackets are all of a similar color.

A shelf of works by authors who all share the first name John.

But none of the Johns are the same.

The shelves that have no apparent logic,

Except that as you take in the titles,

Your mind automatically justifies their placement by the strangest of criteria such as Books for when you're sad.

Books whose character voices you can hear perfectly inside your head.

Books best read on summer days,

When the weather is not too hot,

Not too cold,

And you should be doing chores,

But it's just too lovely outside.

Books you tell people you've read,

But really haven't.

Books that contain a lot of really big words you don't know,

So you have to look them up,

And the words are so brilliant and specific you can't wait to use them in a sentence.

Books best enjoyed on rainy days.

Finally,

Unable to narrow down what you're looking for among the infinite shelves,

You close your eyes.

You take a deep breath,

You turn around,

And you stick out a hand.

You pick the first book you touch.

You're pleased to see that it's a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

There's gold leaf on the cover,

And it's embossed with the symbols of the beloved detective.

A pipe,

A deerstalker,

And a magnifying glass.

This will do just fine,

You think,

Retiring to one of the welcoming nooks nestled in a granite archway overgrown with morning glory.

You sit down in a big wing-backed chair and pull a blanket over your knees.

There's a little table next to the chair,

On which rests a flickering votive candle,

And a small bell jar containing floating twinkle lights,

Like tiny fireflies or fairies.

You settle in,

And you lift the cover of the book.

At once,

You feel an unusual tugging sensation,

Then a whoosh,

Then a whirl,

And you're being swept along a tunnel like the one within the Tower of Bugs,

Toward a brilliant light.

Then a moment later,

Before you can even comprehend what's happening,

Your feet land with a thud upon grimy cobblestones.

Your mind struggles to catch up with your body.

All around you,

However,

Life seems to continue on as normal,

As though you haven't just dropped out of the sky,

Into the middle of what looks like a Victorian Christmas card.

Whirling around to take in your surroundings,

You observe a small and moderately busy street The women are dressed in lengthy,

Modest ensembles with high necks and bustles.

The men don thick overcoats and formal hats.

A paperboy tosses a bundle of newspapers onto a nearby step,

And you rush over to rest one of them from its binding.

Your eyes dart to the corner of the page where you're dizzied by the date,

December 18th,

1892.

As you attempt to comprehend such a thing,

You scan the rest of the paper.

It's the Daily Telegraph,

A London publication.

The headline reports the theft of a priceless gemstone,

Identified simply as the Blue Carbuncle.

This story takes up most of the front page.

You lift your head,

And you feel a smile creep across your lips as you note the address number on the door before which you stand.

It's 221B.

Taking in the street once more,

You allow the pieces to fall into place.

This is Baker Street.

You've fallen headfirst into the pages of the book.

Into the 19th century London of one Sherlock Holmes.

Hardly containing your excitement,

You ring the bell for 221B,

The residence of the famed detective.

A hairy-looking woman answers the door and immediately assumes you must be looking for Mr.

Holmes.

She directs you up the stairs to Holmes and Watson's apartment,

Then continues with her cleaning.

From up the stairs,

You can hear the faint sound of the violin floating on the air.

An almost recognizable melody.

You climb the creaky staircase,

Hardly believing that you're about to meet literature's greatest detective.

When you reach the door to the apartment,

You hear an indistinct muttering,

And the violin music ceases.

You knock quietly,

Your heart swiftly beating.

Moments later,

The door flies open,

Revealing the man himself.

A pipe in one hand,

Eyeing you with suspicion.

Behind him,

An office and residence uniquely disheveled.

Stacks of paper everywhere,

A fire raging in the fireplace,

And furniture strewn with books,

Books,

Newspapers,

And loose articles of clothing.

In a corner,

A mustachioed man sits at a typewriter,

Ignoring your presence.

John Watson,

Presumably.

Holmes lets you in.

He asks your name,

But before you sputter to respond,

He guesses.

It's not your name he comes up with,

But he seems entirely confident that he knows who you are.

Suddenly,

You realize that if you're interacting with him,

You might have fallen into the shoes of one of the story's characters.

You don't know the Blue Carbuncle story well,

So the name Holmes comes up with for you,

Rider,

Doesn't mean much.

Before you know it,

Holmes is making a number of observations and deductions about you,

Leaving no space for a response.

The speed at which he makes his inferences is absolutely bewildering.

Watson,

For his part,

Seems to be sitting back and enjoying the performance.

You find yourself digging your hands into your pockets,

A nervous habit when you don't know what to do with your hands.

The detective is still going,

Still observing your manner of dress,

And your little quirks.

It's impressive,

Really.

Then your hand,

In your right pocket,

Closes around something cold and hard,

The size of a chestnut.

You gulp.

It's the Blue Carbuncle.

You know it.

You're the thief.

And Holmes is closing in on it,

Too.

He knows what you have in your pocket.

He's just taking his time,

Teasing out the explanation for how you swindled the jewel.

Before he gets to his mounting conclusion,

You screw up your eyes tightly,

Wishing for the gem to disappear,

Wishing for a way out.

A wash and a whirl.

And when you open your eyes again,

You're back in the library.

Holmes and Watson and 221B Baker Street are gone,

Except for their form in black and white words on the page.

You sigh with relief,

Feeling your body sink into your chair.

Your breath disturbs the flickering candle on the table.

You find yourself laughing.

What a strange adventure.

Feeling your appetite for a detective fiction dwindle,

You take to the shelves again for a new story.

You wonder if all the books in the library have the same effect,

And if so,

Where do you want to go next?

To the hidden world of Narnia?

20,

000 leagues under the sea?

You know it when you see it.

You pull down a first edition printing of Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island.

It calls to you.

Returning to your chosen reading nook,

You open the book and once again feel yourself sucked,

Headfirst,

Into the story.

When your feet land,

It's not upon solid earth,

But on swaying boards.

Wind whips through your hair and the smell of salt fills your nostrils.

You stand on the bow of a ship.

A schooner bouncing across the rolling waves of calm,

Open seas.

You take a big inhale,

Reveling in the glorious weather and clean ocean air.

This was a good choice,

You think.

You can't remember the exact plot of Treasure Island,

But what could be better than sun and sea?

Paradise lies ahead,

With buried gold and sea shanties and swashbuckling adventure.

Much more exciting than an afternoon languishing in a powerless house.

The schooner cuts its path smoothly on the water.

Under the glittering low sun toward the west,

You can see silver dolphins leaping in and out of the waves.

You're just about in heaven.

Yanking you from your dreamy state,

However,

A gruff voice urges you back to work,

And a rough hand shoves a mop into yours.

When you woke up this morning,

You never thought you'd be swabbing the deck of the Hispaniola later in the day.

It's hard work,

But there's something satisfying about it.

When you finish,

You're invited below deck for supper.

The cook has something special for everyone tonight.

And indeed,

The supper is fresh and succulent,

One of the best meals you've ever had made even more delicious as a reward for your labor.

You and the crew applaud the ship's cook,

A one-legged man whose name rings quite the bell,

Long John Silver.

After supper,

The crew breaks into a drinking song with hilarious,

If inappropriate lyrics.

For pirates,

They're not bad company.

Long John Silver takes you aside as the crew drink themselves to sleep.

You vaguely recall him being the villain of the tale,

But you nonetheless feel a sense of relief.

You accompany him above the deck,

Where he points out some of the constellations in the sea of stars.

Ancient wayfinding tools,

He says,

For lost sailors to find their way.

Silver sniffs the air.

A storm is coming,

He thinks,

By the feeling of it,

Coming on the east wind.

You think you can sense it too.

With storm clouds gathering unseen and the looming feeling that Silver is up to something unsavory,

You imagine this is a good time to depart the Hispaniola.

You close your eyes tightly and wish yourself back in the library.

When you open them,

Your eyes are greeted once again with friendly candlelight and endless books.

A book with faded periwinkle blue binding stands out upon a shelf you've internally identified as books that make you feel like a child again.

You pull the book down and run a hand across the embossed roses on the spine.

Hans Christian Andersen's complete fairy tales.

The cover bears a simple illustration of a flower.

Petals sweetly open and a young woman seated comfortably inside the bloom.

Taking your cozy seat once more in the wing-backed chair,

You flip through the pages to the story you want.

Thumbelina.

With a whoosh and a rush and a whirl,

You tumble forward once more,

Landing more gracefully this time as you've gotten used to the journey on the tender surface of a lily pad.

It's night time,

A full moon draping the pond in pale luminescence,

And all around you are the sounds of crickets and night birds.

Reeds the size of jungle trees and cattails as tall as mountains tower over you on the banks.

For a few moments you sit calmly on the lily pad,

Enjoying the music of the night time and the gentle rippling of the still water whenever a bug skids across its surface.

You can smell soil and flowers beyond the banks.

It's a peaceful night,

But alive with nocturnal creatures,

Some as tiny as you.

Enjoying the calm of it,

You pick up on the sound of wings overhead.

Moonlight catches on the swift wing beats of a barn swallow,

Who circles the pond frenetically.

You give a little whistle to catch the bird's attention,

And he slows down to land on the twigs of a nearby bush.

He blinks at you,

Tilting his head,

Then seems to smile if birds can do such a thing.

The swallow knows you.

It's you,

He exclaims with rich emotion,

The one who nursed him back to health when his wing was injured last winter.

What providence that you should meet again in such a strange place.

He offers you a lift out of these waters.

He's traveling north as the weather grows milder and wouldn't mind the company.

You accept graciously and climb aboard the swallow's back.

His feathers are iridescent in the moonlight.

Before you're quite ready,

He kicks off and takes flight.

You cling to him,

Feeling your stomach drop as you ascend into the air.

But the sensation of flight,

A little scary at first,

Is so freeing.

It's breathtaking.

Your heart leaps and your hair whips about in the night breeze,

And everything that was so large about you grows smaller and smaller now.

You feel yourself laughing,

Weightless and tiny in the silvery moonlight.

Below you pass forests and farms.

You share the air with dragonflies and night jars,

Some of whom bid you a friendly greeting.

And you think how marvelous it is that a whole other world flourishes in the tiny spaces of nature,

Unseen by most human eyes.

A village below catches your eye.

Its rooftops and chimneys look achingly familiar,

And you ask the swallow to slow down.

He's unsurprised and remarks that he'd be glad to take you home.

Home,

You think.

And a little red cottage comes into view.

That's home.

You can feel it.

The swallow descends,

Circling around the little cottage,

And lands in a patch of purple flowers in the windowsill.

He thanks you again for your kindness,

And he hopes you consider his debt repaid.

Until we meet again,

You say,

And watch the swallow depart.

The perfume of the purple flowers is overwhelming for someone so small,

Almost intoxicating.

You climb one of the stems to reach the window and look inside,

But before you can get a good look,

You stumble and fall into one of the blossoms.

You fit perfectly inside the bloom.

You must look just like the cover of the book,

Inside the pages of which you're playing.

You try again,

And peer inside at the hearth.

A woman sleeps soundly in a chair by the dying fire,

And a snoozing dog is curled up at her feet.

Mustering all of your strength,

You manage to crack the window open just enough to squeeze through.

There's a table on which sits an open cookbook,

A bowl of flowers,

And a small powder box.

Inside the powder box is a hollow walnut shell made up with a tiny blanket and pillow.

It's just your size.

You climb across the sloping pages of the cookbook,

Noting humorously that your footsteps fit perfectly in the shapes of the letters.

You crawl into the walnut shell bed,

Settle into the pillow,

And pull the blanket up to your chin.

The house smells of fresh bread and honey.

It smells like home and childhood.

Body still buzzing from your exhilarating flight,

You close your eyes.

When you open them again,

You're back in the library.

In your wing-backed chair with the book of fairy tales lying open on your lap,

You stretch your arms over your head and yawn.

Perhaps it's the stories,

Or the atmosphere with the low light and comfy furniture,

But you're getting rather sleepy.

You suppose it's probably close to bedtime by now,

Given all your adventures.

As tempting as it is to curl up and fall asleep in the armchair,

Lulled by the flickering candles,

You should probably be getting home.

As you walk toward the closet door,

You notice that the flowers on the vines tracing the bookshelves are closing up.

They're also ready for night,

You think.

Passing through the silky barrier once more,

You find yourself back in your living room.

There's an eerie calm over the place.

It's late.

Darkness has settled outside.

The rain has stopped.

And the whole house feels entirely still and silent.

You turn around to face the closet,

Which is just a closet.

You reach for the cord to the bare bulb and yank it to test the light.

The power is back on.

The bulb illuminates the poppy flower wallpaper that hides behind the mountains of coats and scarves.

You step outside the front door just for a moment.

Crickets and residual dripping of water from rain gutters.

That's the only sound.

The air is thick with the memory of rain.

The skies are impossibly clear.

And stars dazzle overhead in the shapes of ancient maps.

Limbs and eyelids heavy,

You trudge up the stairs to your bedroom.

Your bed looks more inviting than it ever has.

You sink beneath the covers and close your eyes,

Feeling the solid earth beneath you.

Maybe a gentle sway,

Like a calm ocean.

Or a pond full of lilies.

Your dreams soar over wonderlands and desert islands.

Over distant rivers and snow-covered rooftops.

Through rabbit warrens and down winding yellow brick roads.

You can't wait for the next rainy day.

Breathe naturally.

Feel your belly rise and fall with the breath.

Settle into a comfortable position.

Let the limbs go limp.

Heavy and soft.

Now picture the room around you.

The walls.

The ceiling.

The floor.

See yourself from above.

Notice the expression on your face.

Relax.

Now in your mind,

Visualize your perfect reading space.

It could be a place that already exists.

In your home or the home of a family member.

Or a library somewhere.

It could be a place entirely of your imagination.

Inside or outside.

Anywhere in the world.

This is your reading corner.

It might be a cozy book nook with an armchair and blankets and fairy lights.

Or the tangled roots of a big tree in the forest.

The ground soft with primroses or moss.

Maybe it's a beach with fine white sands between your toes.

Or an aquarium lit with glimmering blue-white light.

Watched by green sea turtles.

Or inside the bud of a poppy.

Or atop a fluffy cloud.

Wherever it is.

On Earth or in another universe.

Let it be the coziest,

Most welcoming place you can imagine.

Someplace you can stay a while.

Someplace you can read comfortably.

And maybe even fall asleep.

Take note of the details in your surroundings.

The quality of the light.

Is the light of the universe.

The light of the universe.

The light of the universe.

The light of the universe.

The light of the universe.

The light of the universe.

The light of the universe.

Is the light warm or cool?

Is it well lit or dim?

Candle lit?

Or natural light from the sun or moon?

Are you inside or outside?

What's the weather like?

Is it a mild summer day?

Or is there rain,

Snow even,

Against the window?

What's the temperature?

Are there any other details?

That make it even more inviting?

Anything on the walls?

Is there a fragrance that's pleasant or relaxing?

Take a seat.

Wherever looks comfortable in your imagined reading corner.

Curl up.

Or stretch out.

Get cozy.

And take in the sight,

Smell,

Sounds,

And feel of the place.

Now notice that a book has materialized in your hands.

It's one you've read before.

It might be your favorite book.

Or it might not.

But it is one that's worth a re-read.

Because it's comforting.

It's the kind of book that feels like a drop of honey.

Or clean sheets.

Or the opening notes of a poem.

Of a long forgotten lullaby.

However that book makes you feel.

Let yourself feel it.

From your head.

To your toes.

Warm.

Safe.

Cozy.

And from your toes.

To your head.

Sleepy.

Tranquil.

At home.

Let yourself settle into your reading nook.

This inviting,

Snug,

Safe corner of your imagination.

Pull the covers up.

Relax.

And count backward.

From ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Five.

Three.

Two.

One.

Reviews

Loved the build up! And then blessedly fell asleep just as the inner closet was being discovered. Will listen again tonight ! 👌😴📕📗📘📖📚🙏

So soothing. I love the narrator’s voice. Bookmarking this story immediately!

I keep coming back to this story! I am always asleep before we even open the door. The details are tremendously vivid. I am enveloped in the scenery created in my mind. Thank you! 😊

This is a story that I can get tangled in. The feeling of being immersed in the story quiets my mind, and I fall asleep every time. It's wonderful.

The simple addition of music has made your stories an even more perfect bedtime accompaniment— still grateful you have created so many wonderful tales!

It must have been good cause i fell asleep! Thank you🙏😊