The Benches Of Moss Hollow: A Peaceful Sleep Story

Journey to Moss Hollow, where a quiet cedar cabin waits among moss-covered trees beside a gently flowing stream. As you wander the woodland paths, you’ll discover a collection of weathered benches—and an old green book that suggests there may be more hidden throughout the forest.

With rain on the windows, warm firelight, and the peaceful sounds of the woods, this gentle sleep story invites you to release the need to fill every moment and simply allow the evening to unfold. Settle in, get comfortable, and let this peaceful sleep story carry you gently toward sleep.

Music: Relaxingtime Vol. 11
River: Shallow River 28466
Rain: Gentle Rain 05 by Dragon Studio

Transcript

Journey to Moss Hollow, Where a quiet cedar cabin waits among moss-covered trees beside a gently flowing stream. As you wander the woodland paths, You'll discover a collection of weathered benches and an old green book that suggests there may be more hidden throughout the forest. With rain on the windows, Warm firelight, And the peaceful sounds of the woods. This gentle sleep story invites you to release the need to feel every moment and simply allow the evening to unfold. Settle in, Get comfortable, And let this peaceful sleep story carry you gently towards sleep. You're listening to The Benches of Moss Hollow. Welcome to the Whispering Willow. I'm Diana and I'm honored you chose to spend this part of your evening with me. Before we begin, Allow yourself a few moments to settle. There is nowhere else you need to be right now, Nothing you need to finish, Nothing to solve. For the next little while, You can simply listen. Let your body grow comfortable wherever you are. Allow your shoulders to soften. Let your hands rest easily wherever it feels most natural for them to do so. Unclench your jaw and allow the small muscles around and between your eyes to relax. Take a slow breath in and release it gently. Continue breathing comfortably. And as you do, Imagine that the day around you is beginning to grow quieter. The edges of everything soften. The thoughts that followed you here begin to drift farther away, No longer asking anything of you. Allow your breathing to find its own easy rhythm. Slow. Natural and unhurried. And somewhere between one breath and the next. You begin to notice a narrow road. It winds through a deep green forest in the late afternoon. You are traveling slowly now, With the window open just a little. It rained earlier, One of those long quiet rains that seemed to wash the whole world clean. The road is still damp, Its dark surface shining softly, Where the light reaches through the trees. Water clings to the leaves overhead, And every so often, A droplet slips free, Falling onto another leaf below, Or tapping lightly against the roof over your head. The forest smells different after rain. Cool earth, Wet bark, Ferns, And something faintly mineral rising from the stones beside the road. You breathe it in. The air coming through the open window is cooler than you expected. Not uncomfortably so. Just enough to make you notice that summer is beginning, Very slowly. To loosen its hold. Along the roadside, Ferns crowd together in thick green folds. Their fronds bend over the edges of the road, Still jeweled with tiny beads of rain. Moss covers fallen logs and soft green blankets. It gathers over stones, Around the roots of trees, And along old stumps that have been slowly returning to the forest for years. Everything here seems softened. Rounded, And quiet. The road curves gently ahead. Disappearing for a moment behind tall trunks of maple and oak. You feel no need to hurry. But the road itself seems to ask for a slower pace. As you travel farther into the woods, You begin to notice small signs that the season is changing. One yellow leaf, Bright as a small flame, Has fallen into a bed of green ferns. A few copper-colored leaves lie scattered across the damp road. Not many, Not yet, Just enough to suggest something different is coming. Somewhere beyond the trees, A bird calls once, Then falls quiet again. The forest seems to be listening. You pass a shallow ditch where rainwater still gathers, Reflecting pieces of sky between floating leaves. A little farther on, A narrow stream runs beneath the road, Its water fuller from the afternoon rain. You hear it briefly as you cross the small wooden bridge. A soft rushing sound beneath you. And then it fades behind. The forest grows deeper. The trees seem taller here, Closer together. Branches stretch overhead, Forming a loose green canopy above the road. The late afternoon light filters through in muted patches, Golden in some places, Silver in others. And then, Just ahead. . . You see a small wooden sign beside the road. It is old, But carefully kept. Rain has darkened the wood, And a thin border of moss has begun to gather along the top edge. Painted across the center in simple cream-colored letters are two words, Moss hollow. Beneath them, A small arrow points to the right. Toward a lane you might easily have missed. You slow and turn. The lane is narrower than the road you have been following, Only wide enough for one car. Branches reach toward it from both sides. Ferns brush close to the edges. The ground beneath you changes from smooth pavement to packed earth and fine gravel, Still dark from the rain. You continue forward slowly. The lane curves almost at once, And when you glance back, The wider road has already disappeared behind the trees. The forest seems to close gently around you, As though drawing a delicate curtain between this place and everything you have left behind. The air feels cooler here. Quieter. The scent of moss and rain comes more strongly through the open window. Somewhere ahead, Beyond another bend in the road, You catch the faintest glimpse of weathered wood between the trees. You do not know exactly what waits in Moss Hollow, But for some reason, You are okay with that. You simply follow the lane deeper into the forest, While the last drops of rain fall softly from the leaves above, And the late summer comes. Very quietly. Begins to turn toward autumn. It's time to wander. The narrow lane continues for another few minutes, Curving between the trees until almost without warning, The forest opens. Ahead of you is a small clearing, And at the far side of it sits a cabin. It is a simple place, Smaller and more secluded than you might have expected. Built of cedar that has weathered over the years to a soft silvery brown. A stone chimney rises along one side and a deep porch stretches across the front. Three broad steps lead up to it, With green moss growing in the narrow spaces between the stones. Beneath the eaves, A neat stack of firewood waits against the wall. There is an old wooden rocking chair near one end of the porch. Turn slightly toward the clearing. As though someone placed it there long ago to watch the woods. Beside the front door, A lantern hangs from a simple iron hook. Its glass is clear, But its brass frame has darkened with age. You come to a stop near the edge of the clearing, And for a moment you simply sit. The clearing is very still. Behind the cabin, You can hear running water. A little stream, Perhaps, Hidden somewhere among the trees. Its sound comes and goes with the breeze, A soft movement of water over stone. You gather your things and step outside. The cool air meets you again, Carrying the scent of cedar and damp earth. Your footsteps make a quiet sound as you cross the clearing. At the port, The old boards give slightly beneath your feet. You climb the three steps and find the cabin key hanging from a small hook beside the door. It is a plain brass key with a little wooden tag attached to it. Nothing is written on the tag. You slip the key into the lock. It turns easily. The door opens and you step inside. For a few moments, You remain near the doorway, Letting your eyes adjust to the softer light. The cabin is warm with wood. Wide plank floors stretch beneath you, Worn smooth in places by years of footsteps. Across the room, A stone fireplace fills much of one wall. A basket of split logs sits beside the hearth, Along with a box of matches and a bundle of kindling. Nearby is a deep sofa, The kind that seems made for curling your feet beneath you. A handmade quilt lies across the back, Stitched in faded squares of rust, Cream, Deep blue, And green. There are books everywhere. A tall shelf beside the fireplace. Another beneath the windows. And a smaller one tucked into the corner near the sofa. The books are old, Their spines softened with use. Summer novels, Summer collections of poetry. There are books about birds, Trees, Wildflowers, And the night sky. A few have no titles left on their faded covers. You run your fingers lightly along one shelf as you pass, Already wondering which one you might choose later. Beyond the sitting room is a small kitchen. Open wooden shelves line the wall, Holding white bowls, Mismatched mugs, A few blue and cream plates, And glass jars filled with tea, Oats, Sugar, And flour. An iron kettle rests on the stove. A wooden table stands beneath the window, With two chairs tucked beneath it. Through the glass there is almost no view in the usual sense, Only trees. Trunks rise just beyond the window, Ferns covering the ground beneath them. From here, The forest feels very close. You open another window slightly, And the sound of the stream becomes clearer. Water moving over stones, Leaves shifting overhead, A bird calling somewhere farther into the woods. You leave the window open. There is a bedroom through the doorway at the back of the cabin. A wooden bed stands beneath another window. It is covered with a thick handmade quilt. A small table sits beside it with a lamp, A ceramic pitcher, And an empty glass. There's a chest of drawers, A woven rug, And another little shelf of books. Everything you might need seems to be here, And very little else. You return to the sitting room and set your things beside the sofa. Something about the room feels unusual. It takes you a moment to understand what it is. You glance toward the fireplace, Then toward the kitchen, And suddenly realize something is missing. There is no clock. You look again almost automatically. Nothing above the fireplace, Nothing on the shelves, Nothing hanging in the kitchen or on any of the walls. Even the little table beside the bed holds only the lamp and pitcher, No clock anywhere. For a moment, You find yourself wondering what time it is. Then the question begins to feel strangely unimportant, As you ask yourself why you might need to know the time. Outside, The forest will grow darker when evening comes. When you are hungry, You will eat. When you are tired, You will sleep. And sometime tomorrow morning light will find its way through these windows. The thought settles quietly within you. You walk back to the open window and rest your hands on the wooden sill. The stream continues behind the cabin, Following its own course through the hollow. The trees move gently beyond the glass, And for the first time in a very long while, There's nothing in the room telling you what part of day this is supposed to be. There is only the cabin. The forest. The sound of quiet water, And the evening arriving whenever it arrives. You stay beside the window for a little while, Listening to the stream behind the cabin. The light outside has changed almost imperceptibly. The clearing is still bright. But beneath the trees, Shadows have begun to gather. Eventually, You turn back toward the room. And that is when you notice the basket sitting in the center of the kitchen table. It is large and round, Woven from pale willow branches, With a folded linen cloth tucked over the top. You must have passed it when you first came in, You think, Finding it odd that you didn't notice it earlier. Perhaps there were too many other things to notice then. Now you walk over to the table and pull out one of the wooden chairs. It is obvious the basket was carefully packed. Intentionally. You lift the cloth, And beneath it find a small loaf of bread. The crust is golden brown, Dusted lightly with flour, And when you pick it up, You realize it is still faintly warm. There are four apples beside it, Small ones, Both red and green, Their skins polished until they shine. A wedge of pale cheese has been wrapped in waxed paper. Beside that, There is a little glass jar of honey, The color of late afternoon sunlight. At the bottom of the basket, You find a covered pottery crock. You lift the lid. Inside is a thick vegetable soup with pieces of carrot, Potato, Beans, And herbs, Something you can warm later when evening settles over the hollow. There is enough here for tonight and probably tomorrow too. Whoever prepared this basket seems to have understood exactly what arriving somewhere new requires. Something warm? Something simple. And enough that you won't need to think about preparing food for a while. You begin putting the food away. The cheese and the little refrigerator. The soup beside it. Put the apples in a wooden bowl on the counter. When you lift the last apple, You find a card beneath it, A small square of cream-colored paper folded once. Your name is not on it. In fact, There is nothing written on the outside. But knowing it is for you, You open it. The handwriting inside is slightly uneven. Written in dark blue ink. It says, Welcome to Moss Hollow. And beneath that. There is nothing you need to do. While you're here. You turn the card over. The other side is blank. You look inside the basket again, Thinking perhaps there is another paper tucked beneath the cloth. Very assent. Just the card. You read the words once more. There is nothing you need to do. While you're here. And slowly you understand that the message means exactly what it says. The hollow is outside the windows. The stream is behind the cabin. There are paths somewhere along the trees, Books on the shelves, And a rocking chair waits on the porch. You can discover any of these things whenever you feel like it. But nothing is required. The card reminds you that nothing is asked of you in this place. You set it against the little jar of honey, Where you can see it from the table. Then you decide to make tea. You fill the iron kettle at the sink, Set it on the stove, And choose a mug from the open shelf. There are several kinds of tea in one of the glass jars. Black tea, Peppermint, Chamomile, And a loose blend that smells faintly of apples and cinnamon. You choose that one. When the water warms, You unwrap the bread. The loaf makes a soft crackling sound as you cut through the crust. You slice one thick piece, Then another thinner one, Before deciding the first was exactly right. You put it on a small blue and cream plate. The kettle begins to murmur. Soon steam curls from its spout. You pour the hot water over the tea and watch the color deepen in the mug. Then you open the little jar of honey. A faint floral sweetness rises from it. You drizzle some across the bread, Watching it settle into the warm surface. Then carry your tea and plate back into the sitting room. For a moment, You almost begin deciding. Perhaps you should unpack first, You think, Or look around outside, Or choose a book, Or find the path beside the stream. The possibilities arrive out of habit, Each one quietly asking to become the next thing Then you look over and notice the card on the kitchen table. There's nothing you need to do while you're here. So you carry your tea to the window. There's a wide wooden sill there. And beside it a comfortable chair. You settle into it. The mug is warm beneath your hands. You take a bite of bread, Soft beneath its crisp crust, With honey gathering in the little pockets along the cut surface. Outside, A drop of water falls from a branch and disappears into the ferns. A squirrel travels halfway along a fallen log, Stops, Then continues into the undergrowth. Farther back, The stream catches a little of the fading light. You sip your tea, And you sit. Minutes may be passing. Perhaps quite a few of them. You have already discovered that Moss Hollow does not seem particularly interested in counting minutes. So you eat your bread and drink your tea. You take a deep breath. And sigh it out. Watching the forest beyond the window. Without deciding what comes next. And with each moment you spend just being. You feel a little lighter than you felt when you came. Eventually, You arrive at the last sip of tea. You carry your empty mug and plate back to the kitchen. The basket remains on the table with the card propped against it. You leave it there. The light beyond the windows has softened further. And when you open the back door, Cool woodland air moves into the cabin. You step outside. Behind the cabin, The sound of the stream is clearer. You follow it across a small patch of grass, Past the stacked firewood, And around the corner of the stone chimney. Which is where you discover a path. It begins almost casually, A narrow strip of earth between two clusters of ferns. There is no sign marking it, No arrow pointing the way. It simply follows the stream into the trees. You stand at its beginning for a moment, Then step onto it. The earth is soft beneath your feet from the earlier rain. Here and there, Shallow impressions hold a little water. Reflecting pieces of green canopy overhead. The path curves gently keeping close to the stream. Sometimes the water is only a few feet away. Sometimes the trail rises above it, And you hear this stream below you, Slipping around stones, Gathering briefly in dark, Quiet pools. Then continuing on. There is something comforting about taking a path you know nothing about. It reminds you of the kind of wandering you did as a child, The anticipation of not knowing what lies around the next corner. The freedom to go where you wish, When you wish. The lack of responsibility. The forest feels different when you are walking through it like this. From the cabin window, You saw trunks, Ferns, Branches, And water. Here you begin to notice the smaller things. Moss grows thickly over the stones, Deep green and soft-looking. Following every curve and hollow. Ferns lean across the edges of the path, Their rain darkened fronds sometimes brushing your legs as you pass. Beneath a fallen branch, A cluster of tiny mushrooms has appeared in the damp earth. Their caps are pale brown, Some no larger than buttons. A little farther along, Another group grows from the side of an old stump. Layer upon layer, Like tiny wooden shelves. You slow to look at them, Then continue. Somewhere deeper in the forest, A woodpecker begins tapping. A quick hollow rhythm, Followed by silence, Only to start up again a few moments later, Farther away than you expected. Above you, The canopy still holds traces of the afternoon rain. Every so often, A drop works its way free. You hear it strike a leaf, Then another, Before disappearing into the undergrowth. The stream keeps you company. Its sound changes as you walk. Soft and smooth where the water widens. Brighter where it passes over stones. Nearly silent in the deeper pools. Then around the next bend you notice a bench beside the trail facing the stream. It is made from two wide wooden planks, Weathered nearly gray, With sturdy legs set into the earth. There is nothing elaborate about it. Someone took the time to place a bench here. The thought makes you smile, And since there is nowhere you need to be, You sit down. The old wood is cool beneath you, Still holding a little of the dampness from the afternoon rain. For a moment or two you watch the stream. Water gathers around the mossy stones, Divides around them, Then comes together again on the other side. A single yellow leaf floats past, Turning slowly in the current before disappearing around the bend. You enjoy the peaceful flow of the stream, Until curiosity eventually draws your eye toward the path again. It continues beyond the maple tree, Narrowing as it disappears among the ferns. You stand and follow it. As you continue walking, The path climbs slightly, Then passes beneath an enormous old tree. Its trunk is so broad that you have to tilt your head back to follow it upward. The bark is deeply ridged with moss gathered in the crevices near its roots. And beneath the tree there is another bench. This one is shorter. Just enough room for one or two people placed beneath the reach of the great branches overhead. You look at the little bench, Then back along the path toward the one beside the stream. Two benches. Each made in much the same way. Wide wooden planks. Sturdy legs. Wood weathered almost gray. Someone thoughtfully made these, You think. Someone carried the wood into the forest, Chose this enormous tree, And decided, Here, This is where a bench should be. You find yourself wondering who. Perhaps the person who owns the cabin. Perhaps someone who lived in Moss Hollow many years ago. There's nothing carved into the wood. No name or date, Only the bench waiting beneath the tree. You run your hand briefly along its weathered back, Then continue on your way. The path narrows again, Winding between ferns and low-growing shrubs. The forest has become dimmer here. The remaining daylight filters through in small shifting patches, Catching on wet leaves, On spider webs, On the moving surface of the stream. Then you find another bench. You almost laugh because this one faces a patch of moss. Moss, Ferns, And the base of several trees. And a fallen log, Slowly softening into the earth. Whoever placed the other benches placed this one too, Because they look the same. And apparently they thought this was a view worth stopping for. You sit down. The wood is cool beneath you. For a moment, Your eyes continue searching. Perhaps this is simply what you have learned to do when you stop somewhere, You think. Look for the important thing. Find the reason this particular place was chosen. But slowly, Your attention begins to settle closer onto the moss first. There are more shades of green in it than you initially noticed while walking. Deep forest green, Soft yellow green, And tiny brighter tips where new growth reaches upward. A fern uncurls beside a stone. One frond trembles when a drop of water lands on it. Near the fallen log, A small brown bird hops into view. It scratches once among the leaves, Turns its head, Then disappears behind a tree. You hear the stream. Though from here you can only see a narrow piece of it between the trunks. Water moving around stone. Leaves shifting overhead. The occasional drop falling through the canopy. The woodpecker has gone quiet. You rest your hands comfortably and let your gaze wander. It occurs to you that here nothing announces itself. Nothing asks to be admired. The forest simply continues around you in hundreds of small ways. Water moves. Leaves stir. Moss grows. Shadows gather slowly beneath the trees. And somewhere in the quiet, You stop waiting for the view. This is the view you realize. The trees, The water, The damp earth. The soft green ferns. And you. Sitting on an old wooden bench in the middle of Moss Hollow. You are part of the view. Part of the moment. For a while, That is enough. More than enough. So you stay while the stream follows its way through the forest and the soft afternoon light settles quietly among the trees. When you finally rise from the bench, You return to the path. It continues deeper into the woods, Following the stream as it curves between the trees. The light has grown softer now. Shadows have begun to gather in the lowest places, Beneath the ferns, Between the roots, And under the fallen branches resting on the forest floor. You walk slowly. But there is something pleasant about having no idea where the path leads. Around another bend, The ground begins to slope downward. The trees grow closer together and the air feels cooler here. The path opens and you stop. Ahead of you the forest dips into a shallow hollow. And nearly everything in it is green. Moss covers the stones beside the stream. It climbs over exposed roots, Softens the broken end of fallen branches. And spreads across an old tree stump until its rough edges almost disappear. Some of it is deep and velvety, Gathered in thick cushions over rounded rocks. Elsewhere it forms a thin green layer across the bark of fallen trees. Tiny ferns rise through it. Small mushrooms gather in the shadows beneath a log. Even the earth itself seems greener here. You step into the hollow. The path becomes less distinct, As though the forest has been slowly drawing it back into itself, The way a grandmother draws a child into her lap. Let a few flat stones show you the way. You place your feet carefully, Moving between patches of moss that look far too soft to disturb. The stream narrows ahead, And there, Crossing from one bank to the other, Is a little wooden footbridge. It is barely more than a few planks with a simple railing. The wood here, Too, Is weathered gray, And moss has begun to gather along its edges. You walk forward and step onto it. The boards make a quiet sound beneath your feet, And halfway across you stop. Below you the stream slips between dark stones. The water is clear enough to see the pebbles beneath it. Brown, Gray, Rust-colored. And almost white. A leaf has caught in a tiny pool between two rocks. It turned slowly, Released for a moment, Then caught again. You rest your hands on the railing and look around. The hollow feels almost like a garden, And yet there are no borders here. No beds or pathways carefully laid out. The ferns grow wherever they have found space. Mushrooms appear beneath fallen wood. Branches lie where wind or weather has placed them, And moss seems to be everywhere. You walk the rest of the way across the bridge and crouch beside a large stone near the bank. Its surface is almost completely covered. Only a small patch of gray remains visible near the bottom. You touch the moss lightly with the tips of your fingers. It feels cool and softer than it looks. You wonder how long it has been growing here. Months? Perhaps years. There must have been a time when this old stone was bare, You think. Then, Little by little, The green began. So slowly that anyone passing each day might never have noticed it changing. A little more across one season. A little more across another. Rain falling, Sunlight returning, Leaves opening overhead, Then falling again. And all the while the moss continued. Quietly and patiently. Growing wherever the forest gave it what it needed. You look around the hollow again at the stump whose cut surface has nearly disappeared beneath green. At the fallen branch becoming part of the earth beneath it. At the roots of an old tree, Their curves softened by years of tiny growth. So much has been happening here. Without any moment when it could have been called finished. You find a dry place on the edge of the footbridge and sit. And as you sit there, You begin to think of all the things that grow this way. Quietly. A little at a time. Things that can be difficult to measure while they are happening. Sometimes, The change becomes visible only after enough time has passed to look back and see it. Like moss covering a stone. You let the thought settle for a while, Then allow it to drift away. You take a deep breath in. The air here has its own scent. Damp earth and wet stone. The deep green smell of moss, Decaying leaves becoming rich soil. And the faint clean scent of water moving through the hollow. Occasionally, The breeze carries something warmer, Too. The resinous scent of pine. Or the dark, Witty fragrance of a fallen branch softened by years of rain. The stream moves beneath the bridge. A drop falls from somewhere overhead, Landing softly among the ferns and bringing you back from your reverie. The light between the trees has shifted while you've been sitting here. Warmer now. Filtering softly through the canopy. Still, You remain where you are. There is no reason to decide how long is enough. So you stay until something inside you quietly feels ready to go. Then you stand. Cross the little bridge once more and find the path on the other side of the hollow. Before leaving, You glance back. In the angled afternoon light, The moss seems greener, Covering stones, Roots, Branches, And the remains of trees that have stood here for generations. Growing so slowly that no one could watch it happen, Yet changing the forest in a significant way all the same. You smile, Turn back toward the cabin, And begin the walk home. By the time you reach the cabin, The forest has grown quieter. You step onto the porch, Brush a few damp leaves from your shoes, And go inside. The cabin welcomes you with its familiar scent of cedar, Old books, And the faint trace of wood smoke. You set the key on the kitchen table beside the basket that was waiting for you earlier. And then you look through the window again. The afternoon is still there. Soft light filters through the trees, Resting on wet leaves. You think about your afternoon. You have walked beside the stream, Sat beneath the trees, Found the moss garden. And wandered all the way home. And still the afternoon stretches before you. You glance around the cabin. Nothing here is waiting for you. The remaining afternoon simply stretches out before you, Open and entirely your own. For a few moments, You aren't quite sure what to do with that. Then your eyes fall on the bookshelf. You walk over, Trailing your fingers slightly along the worn spines. One catches your attention. It is narrow, Bound in faded green cloth, With no title on the spine. You pull it from the shelf. The cover is plain. The corners have softened with age. And when you open it, The pages make the faintest crackle. There is no title page, No author's name. Instead, On the first page, You see a pencil drawing of a wooden bench. You look at it for a moment. Then you recognize the curve of the stream behind it, And the three moss-covered stones in the water. This is the first bench, The one where you sat earlier this afternoon. You turn the page. There's another drawing. This bench standing beneath an enormous tree, Its deeply ridged trunk rising behind the wooden back. You recognize this one too. You turn another page and smile. There it is, The little bench facing almost nothing. A patch of moss, Several ferns, A fallen log, Exactly as you remember it. Beneath the drawing, Someone has written a few words in pencil. The handwriting is small, Slanted slightly to the right. It says, Nothing much to see here, A very good place to sit. You read it again, Then laugh softly, So whoever placed the bench there knew. You turn back through the pages. Beside the first bench there is another note. A good place to hear the water. Beneath the drawing of the great tree. It says shade here by mid-afternoon. And beside each one a date. You look more closely. The dates are old. Much older than you expected. Some from decades ago. You turn another page. This time you don't recognize the bench. It sits beneath a copse of tall pines, With a carpet of needles beneath it. The next one overlooks a still pool in the stream that you don't remember seeing. Another stands on a little rise where the trees seem to open toward the sky. All of these are benches you haven't found yet. You continue turning the pages. Near the back you find a rougher drawing, Less finished than the others. A bench shown from several angles, With measurements written along the edges, And little notes about the wood. You study it for a moment, Then glance toward the window. Somewhere in the forest there are more benches, Perhaps one beneath those pines and one beside the quiet pool. And many years ago, Someone seems to have known exactly where each of them belonged. You could keep reading. There are dozens of pages left. Instead, You closed the book. You leave it on the table beside the sofa. Where it will be waiting whenever you want to open it again. Outside the trees move gently in the afternoon breeze. A branch dips, Rises, Then dips again. You watch it. There is something strangely pleasant you think about leaving a book unfinished. You stretch your legs along the sofa and pull the handmade quilt down from the back. The old green book remains nearby. Its secrets can wait. From here you can see the shelves, The stone fireplace, The kitchen, And beyond the windows the trees surrounding the cabin swaying gently in the growing breeze. Your eyes grow heavy so you allow them to close and drift somewhere near sleep. Thoughts come and go, Loose and unfinished. You hear the stream beside the cabin, A branch moving against another branch. The small creek of old wood as the cabin settles. Then a new sound. Very faint at first. A soft tapping overhead. You open your eyes to see that a light rain has begun falling again, Gentle enough that you can hear individual drops landing on the roof. Taps. Then another. Then several together. Eventually, The sound grows steadier. Creating an undistinguishable pattern on the roof above you. Outside the window tiny drops gather on the glass. The forest beyond them softens, The trees blurring slightly behind the water. You remain beneath the quilt, Watching. And a warmness settles over you. There is something deeply comforting about rain when you have nowhere to go. You begin to wonder how much of the afternoon has passed. Perhaps you read for 20 minutes. Perhaps you rested for half an hour. Maybe longer. There is still no clock nearby to answer the question. And you feel no small amount of wonder at the knowledge that you have no need to go looking for one. You think about the afternoon. A walk through the woods, An old green book discovered on a shelf, A little time spent watching the rain. A few minutes drifting in and out of sleep. Measured against an ordinary day, It might seem as though you haven't done very much at all. And then, Almost as quickly as the thought appears, It is replaced by a different thought. You aren't wasting the afternoon. This is The Afternoon. This quiet room. This soft sofa, This half-read book on the table beside you. This rain sliding down the window. And you settling a little deeper into the cushions of a comfortable sofa. You marvel at the rare gift of a moment like this. Outside rain darkens the bark of the trees, Gathers along the leaves, And disappears into the mossy ground. Inside the old cabin gives an occasional quiet creak. Wood settling softly around you. The book can wait, The rest of the afternoon can unfold exactly as it chooses. Perhaps later you will warm the soup. Perhaps you will read another page. Perhaps you will sit on the porch when the rain stops. For now, Though, You pull the quilt a little higher and listen to the rain falling softly over Moss Hollow. And you let the afternoon simply be the afternoon. For a long while, You remained stretched out on the sofa, Listening to the rain. Sometimes it becomes a little stronger, A steady patter against the roof and windows. Then it softens again until you can hear individual drops. You have no idea how long you've been lying here, And eventually you realize you haven't wondered for quite some time. Outside the window the forest has changed. The green of afternoon has deepened into blue-gray. Individual leaves are becoming harder to see. And the trunks of the trees have begun to blend into the shadows behind them. Without your knowledge or permission, Evening has arrived. You sit up beneath the quilt. The cabin feels cooler now. You fold the quilt loosely and leave it on the sofa, Then cross the room to the stone fireplace. The basket of logs is waiting beside the hearth. You place two pieces of wood inside, Add some kindling, And strike a match. For a moment, There is only the small blue gold flame at the end of the match. Then the kindling catches. A thin flame curls around one piece, Then another. Growing brighter. You add another log and sit back on your heels. Soon the fire begins to find its rhythm. Wood settles with a soft crack. Flames move along the bark, Sending warm light across the stone. Already the room feels different. You stand and go into the kitchen. The pottery crock of soup is waiting in the refrigerator. You take it out, Lift the lid, And breathe in the faint scent of herbs and vegetables. You smooth some into a small pot and set it on the stove to warm. There is still bread from the basket. You cut another thick slice. Then unwrap the cheese and add a small piece to your plate. One of the apples catches your eye. You choose the smallest, Wash it at the sink, And cut it into wedges. Soup, Bread, Cheese, And an apple. It is such a simple supper, And standing there in the little kitchen, With the rain at the windows and firelight moving across the room, It feels like the feast of a king. The soup begins to steam and you stir it slowly. Carrots, Potatoes, Beans, And herbs moving through the broth. You lift the spoon, Taste a little, Then turn off the heat. You carry everything to the wooden table beside the window. Your bowl, Your plate, A cup of water, One spoon. And you sit. Outside rain continues through the trees. The last of the daylight has nearly disappeared, Leaving the forest soft and indistinct beyond the glass. Inside the fire reflects faintly in the window. You take your first spoonful of soup. It is warm and savory, The vegetables soft, The broth carrying the earthy taste of herbs. You tear a piece of the bread and dip one corner into the bowl. For a while, You simply eat a spoonful of soup, A bite of bread, A piece of apple. Cool and crisp after the warmth of the bra. Then a little cheese. There is something incredibly satisfying about a meal this uncomplicated. You can truly taste the bread, Hear the rain. Feel the warmth from the fireplace reaching across the room. The meal takes exactly as long as it wants. Eventually, Your spoon finds the bottom of the bowl. You eat the last piece of apple, Finish your water, And sit for another moment at the table. Beyond the window, The forest has mostly disappeared into darkness. Only the nearest trunks remain visible now, Silhouetted against the deep blue of the evening sky. You gather your dishes and take them to the sink. There is very little to wash. One bowl. One spoon, One cup. You rinse each one beneath warm water. First the bowl, Then the spoon. Then the cup. You place them on the wooden rack beside the sink where they can dry. Then you wipe your hands on the linen towel hanging nearby. And that's it! The kitchen is quiet again. The rest of the evening belongs entirely to you. You return to the sitting room. The fire has settled into a steady glow. You add one more log. Then lower yourself onto the sofa. The quilt is still there and you draw it across your lap. For a while you watch the flames, Enjoying how they curl around the logs, Brightening, Settling, Then rising again. Every now and then a piece of wood shifts and sends a small cluster of sparks up the chimney. Behind you, Rain traces quiet paths down the window. The cabin seems smaller at night, You think, In the nicest, Coziest way. The dark forest gathers around the walls, While inside there is only this circle of warmth. The sofa, The quilt, The stone hearth, And the sound of rain. Your simple supper has been eaten. Your three dishes are drying beside the sink. You lean back, Feeling the warmth of the fire against your face. And for now, Moss Hollow has become a single, Quiet room. Surrounded by rain. Held by the forest and lit by fire. After a time, You notice that something has changed. For most of the evening, The rain has been a quiet presence around the cabin, Against the roof, Along the windows, Dripping steadily from the eaves. You listen. The fire crackles. The stream moves behind the cabin. But outside the rain has stopped. You set the quilt aside and rise from the sofa. At the window, The glass is still covered with beads of water. Beyond it, The forest is dark. But the sky above the trees has begun to clear, And moonlight peeks through broken clouds. You reach for the quilt again, Wrap it loosely around your shoulders this time, And open the front door. Cool air enters immediately. Fresh, Damp, And wonderfully clean. You step onto the porch. The boards shine beneath the lantern, Still wet from the rain. Along the edge of the roof drops of water have gathered. One grows heavier, Trembles, Then falls. A few seconds later another follows. You breathe in deeply. The whole forest seems to have changed its scent. Wet cedar rises from the porch boards and the cabin walls. There is the dark, Rich smell of rain-soaked earth, The green scent of leaves, And somewhere beneath it all, The faint warmth of wood smoke drifting from the chimney. You draw the quilt a little closer around your shoulders. The rocking chair is waiting where you first saw it when you arrived. And you sit. The old runners moved gently against the porch boards, Forward and back. Forward and back. Beyond the porridge, Moss hollow has disappeared into darkness. You can make out the nearest trees, Their wet trunks catching a little of the lantern light from the porridge. Further away, Though, The forest becomes shadow. You cannot see the stream from here, But you can still hear it. The earlier rain seems to have given it a little more water, And now its voice carries more clearly through the hollow, Water moving over stone, Slipping around roots, Continuing through the darkness on a path it seems to know by heart. You rock slowly. Somewhere beyond the porch, Hidden now by darkness, Are the paths you walked this afternoon. The bench beside the stream. The one beneath the enormous tree. And the wonderfully unnecessary bench facing its patch of moss and ferns. There are others out there too. You know that now. Benches you've seen only in the pages of an old green book. The thought makes you smile. You feel no urge to go looking for them tonight. It is simply enough to know that they are there. But tomorrow? A wonderful adventure seems to await. Above the trees, The clouds are beginning to separate. At first, You see only a narrow opening. A patch of deep blue-black sky. Then a single star. A little later. Another. The clouds continue moving, Their edges pale in the night sky, Revealing small pieces of the darkness beyond them. You tilt your head back. There are more stars now. Some bright, Some so faint you see them only when you stop trying to look directly at them. A drop falls from the roof. Then another. Somewhere in the trees, Water slips from one leaf onto the leaves below. A tiny descending rhythm that ends somewhere on the forest floor. You breathe in again. Cedar, Earth, Leaves. With smoke. Comforting now in their familiarity. The quilt is warm around your shoulders. The air against your face is cool. And the rocking chair continues its slow movement. Forward and back. For a moment you remember arriving here. The narrow road. The cabin waiting in the clearing. And how strange it felt to find a room without a clock. Than the basket and the little card that said there is nothing you need to do while you're here. When you first read those words, They felt like a gift of permission. Now you think of the old green book resting beside the sofa. The rain, The simple bowl of soup, And three dishes drying beside the sink. All those hours with so little required of them. You rock gently. Forward and back. And you realize that somewhere along the way something changed. Earlier, An empty stretch of time seemed to invite a question. What should I do next? Now, Sitting beneath the clearing sky, The question no longer comes. You have simply stopped asking. That feels more important than it initially seems. So you ponder it for a few moments. Your eyes return to the stars. Another patch of clouds move aside revealing several more. The stream continues below. Water drips from the eaves behind you. Firelight glows through the cabin window, Warm against the dark forest. You could stay here for another minute or several. And that realization makes you smile. So you rock, Wrapped in the quilt, Breathing the rain-washed air. While the clouds slowly open above Moss Hollow, And the stars, One by one, Come into view. Eventually, The cool night air begins to settle around you. You give the rocking chair one last gentle push, Then let it come to rest. But the clouds have thinned even more now. Stars shine through the open spaces, Small and clear, Above the dark shapes of the trees. You stand, Keeping the quilt wrapped around your shoulders, And take one last breath of the rain-washed air. With cedar. Earth, Leaves, The faintest trace of wood smoke. Then you step inside and close the door softly behind you. The fire has burned lower. Only a few small flames remain, Moving between glowing pieces of wood. You leave them to settle and carry the quilt toward the bedroom. The little room at the back of the cabin is familiar from your first look around, But it feels different now. Quieter in the evening with the warm glow of the bedside lamp falling across the wooden walls. A bed stands beneath the window. Made with fresh white cotton sheets. Across the foot, A thick quilt has been folded neatly, Its pieces stitched together in muted greens, Cream, And faded gold. There is a small wooden table beside the bed. And a lamp with a warm amber shade. Next to it, Someone has placed a little pottery vase. Three fern fronds rise from it, Their delicate leaves making shadows against the wooden wall. You set the quilt from the sofa over the chair, Then prepare for bed. The cabin is almost completely silent now. You can hear the occasional settling of old wood boards, The faint crackle of the dying fire in the other room, And beyond the walls, The stream. Before climbing into bed, You cross to the window. You turn the latch and ease it open just a few inches more. Cool forest air slips into the room. It carries the scent of wet leaves, Pine, And damp earth. You stand there for a moment looking out. The nearest trees are dark silhouettes. Their branches overlap against the night sky. And between them you see a handful of stars. And strips of moonlight. Everything below the trees has disappeared completely into shadow. Somewhere beyond the window, The path you walked this afternoon disappears into the trees. You turn away from the window and switch off the bedside lamp. Then you climb into bed. Let the cotton sheets feel cool at first. Soft against your skin. You pull the quilt over you and slowly, Warmth begins to gather beneath it. Muted green. Cream. Faded Gold. All disappearing into darkness as your eyes adjust. You settle your head into the pillow, Shift once, Perhaps twice. Until you find exactly the right place. Then you become still. Through this slightly open window, You can hear the stream. It sounds different in the dark. Closer somehow. Water moves steadily over the stones, Sometimes soft. Sometimes a little clearer as it passes through the hollow. Every so often, A drop of rain, Still held somewhere high in the branches, Works its way free. It falls through the leaves, Touching one, Then another. Before reaching the forest floor. Then there is quiet once again. You breathe slowly. The pillow beneath your head. The weight of the quilt. Cool air against your face, The stream beyond the window. Your thoughts begin to wander toward tomorrow. Somewhere in the sitting room, The old green book is still resting beside the sofa. You think of the pages you haven't turned yet. The pencil drawings, The little handwritten notes, And the benches hidden somewhere outside. Perhaps tomorrow, You'll follow this dream farther and recognize one. Maybe the bench beneath the pines or the one beside the quiet pool. Perhaps you'll discover another that hasn't appeared in the book at all. Or perhaps you'll spend the morning right here. Drinking tea beside the window. Turning a few more pages of the old green book. Listening to the stream. The thought feels easy now. The book will wait on the table. The paths will wait beneath the trees. And somewhere in Moss Hollow. Those old wooden benches will remain exactly where someone decided they belonged. They will still be there tomorrow. And if tomorrow passes without you finding them, They will still have been there. Beneath the pines. Beside the water. Waiting for someone else who happens to wander their way. You smile into the darkness and let tomorrow take care of itself. You feel your body growing heavier beneath the quilt. The muscles around your eyes soften. Your breathing becomes quieter. Outside another drop falls from a branch. Then another farther away. The stream moves steadily through the darkness. For now, There is only this room beneath the pines. This warm bed. This cool forest air. And the quiet sound of water moving through Moss Hollow. You let your eyes remain closed. The cabin settles around you. The forest settles around the cabin. And somewhere beyond the open window, The stream continues on. While you slowly and quietly. Drift into sleep. Good night.