The Keeper Of The Saltwind Cottage: A Gentle Sleep Story

Tonight’s sleep story will take you to a weathered cottage overlooking the sea, where the busy days of summer have come to an end, and the coast is beginning to grow quiet again. You’ll spend a peaceful afternoon with the cottage’s longtime keeper, bringing herbs in from the garden, lighting lanterns, and walking an almost-empty beach to discover what the changing tide has left along the shore.

Later, you’ll watch migrating birds cross the evening sky, enjoy warm soup beside the fire, and listen as late summer rain begins to fall softly over the cottage before you settle into a cozy room beneath the eaves where the distant sound of waves carries you toward sleep. Tonight’s story is a gentle reminder that when one season ends... beauty doesn’t disappear. Sometimes... it simply changes.

Music: Relaxingtime Vol. 14
Ocean: by Soundangel1111
Rain: Gentle Rain 05 by Dragonstudio

Transcript

Tonight's sleep story will take you to a weathered cottage overlooking the sea, Where the busy days of summer have come to an end and the coast is beginning to grow quiet again. You'll spend a peaceful afternoon with the cottage's longtime keeper, Bringing herbs in from the garden, Lighting lanterns. And walking an almost empty beach to discover what the changing tide has left along the shore. Later, You'll watch migrating birds cross the evening sky, Enjoy warm soup beside the fire, And listen to the late summer rain begin to fall softly over the cottage before you settle into a cozy room beneath the eaves, Where the distant sound of waves carries you towards sleep. Tonight's story is a gentle reminder that when one season ends, Beauty doesn't disappear. Sometimes it simply changes. You're listening to Salt Wind Cottage Gifts of the Sea. One. Welcome, My friend. I'm Diana, And I'm so happy to share a piece of your evening with you. So make yourself comfortable, Allow the day to begin slipping away, And settle into the place where you're resting. Allow your head to sink into your pillow and let your shoulders soften. Your hands can rest where they naturally fall. Your finger is loose. Your jaw relaxed. Take a slow, Easy breath in and let it gently go. Then allow your breathing to find its own comfortable rhythm. And as you rest. Imagine the sounds of your day beginning to grow quieter. Conversations. Tasks. Little things still waiting for tomorrow. All beginning to feel a little farther away. And when you're ready. It's time to wander. Somewhere beyond the room where you're resting, Imagine a quiet road winding toward the sea. It is late afternoon in the earliest days of autumn. The warmth of summer still lingers in the air. But there is a new coolness beneath it now. Tall grasses move gently beside the road. Their green beginning to fade toward gold. And a head. Between the dunes. You catch your first glimpse of the sea. Hugh came to this seaside village hoping to hold on to the last threads of summer, Even as autumn begins to press its way in. Already there are glimpses of the changing season. Blue-gray water stretches toward the horizon, Glimmering beneath a pale September sky. You can hear waves reaching the shore. Then slowly drawing away again. The road curves, And a small cottage comes into view. You remember something you heard earlier in the village. Salt Wind Cottage, A little place above the sea where travelers sometimes stay after the summer crowds have gone. It sits on a rise overlooking the water, Its wooden shingles softened by years of salt air. Its windows reflecting the afternoon light. A narrow garden surrounds it. Herbs grow beside the weathered fence, And an old lantern hangs near the front door. There are other cottages farther along the coast, But most are quiet now that the summer season has officially ended. You stand for a moment, Feeling the salt wind cool and clean against your face. The beach paths are nearly empty, And the whole coastline seems to have exhaled. You follow the little path toward the cottage, Hearing the grasses whisper beside you. When you came here today, You weren't certain whether you would spend the night. You simply followed the coastal road to see where it led. But now standing at the garden gate. You wonder whether this cottage might have a room. And while you're still wondering. . . The cottage door opens, And someone steps outside. She looks toward you with a welcoming smile. The woman standing in the doorway lifts one hand in greeting. She looks to be somewhere in her seventies, With silver hair loosely gathered at the back of her neck. And a soft blue cardigan buttoned over a simple linen shirt. There is something about her that makes you feel immediately comfortable. Perhaps it's the way she smiles, As though unexpected visitors are simply another pleasant part of her day. You found us, She says. You glanced toward the little cottage. I wasn't sure I had the right place. Oh, This is the place. She steps through the gate and comes toward you. I'm Clara, She says. You introduce yourself, And together you walk toward the cottage. Up close, You can see the marks left by years beside the sea. The cedar shingles have faded to almost silver. White paint along the window frames has softened with age. Beside the door hangs an old iron lantern, Its glass slightly clouded by years of salt and wind. Nothing about the cottage is perfect. And somehow, That makes it even more beautiful. Come in, Clara says. You step across the threshold. The cottage smells faintly of cedar, Dried herbs, And the lingering remains of a fire. A stone fireplace occupies one wall. Two deep chairs sit beside it. Bookshelves fill, Books fill shelves beneath the windows, And a woven rug covers the old plank floor. Everywhere you look, You see the quiet marks of a life lived along the coast. A shallow bowl of pale shells rests on the mantle. Smooth stones sit along the kitchen sill. And beside one of the bookshelves, A long piece of driftwood rests against the wall. The wood has been worn smooth and pale, Almost silver, Its edges rounded by water and time. You pause beside it. This is beautiful. Clara follows your gaze. The sea left that one a long time ago. You remember when? Oh yes, She smiles, But doesn't explain further. Above one window hangs a small brass windbill, Its surface softened by years of salt air. The wind really does find this place. Clara laughs softly, Always. She glances toward the window as the curtain lifts slightly in the breeze. That is how the cottage got its name. Then she gestures toward the kitchen. T, You follow her. Near the window, Bundles of herbs stand in jars of water. Rosemary. Thyme. Sage. Through the glass, You can see the garden. It is still mostly green, But summer has begun to fade its edges. A few flowers remain. Tall grasses have gone to seed. Herbs spill over the sides of a weathered wooden bed. Clara fills a kettle and sets it on the stove. It was a very different place a few weeks ago, She says. You look through the window toward the quiet lane. Busy? Oh yes, She smiles. Children running to the beach. Towels over every railing. Bicycles everywhere. And now? Now we get the coast back. There is affection in her voice. Not relief, Exactly. Appreciation for what has come next. The kettle begins to murmur. Clara pours two cups of tea and carries them to the little table beside the window. You sit across from her. For a few moments you drink your tea and look out toward the garden. A breeze moves through the herbs. Somewhere a gull calls. How long have you lived here, You ask? Oh, I don't live here. She wraps both hands around her cup. I'm the keeper. The keeper? That's what they've always called the person who looks after the cottage. You glance around the little room again. The old books. The faded floorboards. The shells and sea-smoothed stones resting quietly on the mantle. And the pale driftwood beside the shelves. You've collected quite a lot of what the sea has left behind. Clara looks around as though she had never thought of it that way. I suppose I have. Then she smiles. The shore is different once summer is over. Different how? Quieter for one thing. She looks toward the distant water. And the changing tides have a way of uncovering things. You wait for her to say more, But Clara simply takes another sip of tea. Then she sets down her cup. I'm beginning to get things done for the autumn, She says. There are herbs to bring inside, Lanterns to prepare, A few things in the garden that need tending still. You do all of that yourself? Usually. Then she looks at you. A little spark of amusement appears in her eyes. But this year, I seem to have acquired help, You laugh. I walked into that. Didn't I? Completely. What does it pay? Clara considers this. Soup. Good soup, You ask? Excellent soup, She says. You smile. She glances through the window toward the sea. And if the rain comes tonight, She says, A warm bed upstairs. You follow her gaze. Far beyond the garden, Clouds have begun gathering over the water. You think it's going to rain? I know it is. How? Clara shrugs. Years of watching the sea, My dear. She finishes her tea and stands. You'll stay? You look around the cottage, Then toward the quiet garden and the blue-gray water beyond it. Suddenly, You can't think of anywhere you would rather be. I'll stay. Clara smiles. Then she takes an old woven basket from a hook. And hands you another. We should do a little work before the rain finds us, She says. She opens the back door. Cool sea air moves into the kitchen. Beyond the steps, The garden waits, Still holding the last traces of summer. And somewhere beyond it, The tide is slowly drawing away from the shore. And together, You step outside. The garden feels different once you step into it. From the kitchen window, It had looked a little tired. But standing among the beds now, You begin to notice how much is still growing. Rosemary spills over a stone border. Sage leaves have softened to silvery green. Tall stems of lavender sway gently in the sea breeze, And a few late flowers still hold their color. Clara hands you the basket. We'll start with the herbs. She moves toward the rosemary and begins clipping several long stems. You follow her lead, Gathering each cutting and laying it carefully in the basket. Do you bring them all inside, You ask? Only what we'll use. Clara rubs a rosemary leaf between her fingers. Its fragrance rises immediately. The rest can stay a little longer. You move slowly through the garden together, Cutting thyme, Sage, And the last of the lavender. There is no hurry. Now and then Clara pauses to inspect a plant, Tying back a stem, Pulling a weed, Or simply deciding that something can remain exactly as it is. At the far end of the garden, She stops beside a small patch of late-blooming flowers. These stay, She says. For the bees? For the bees. You smile. When the basket is full, You carry it inside. Clara shows you how she bundles the herbs with pieces of cotton string. Soon, Small bunches hang from hooks near the kitchen window. Rosemary, Thyme, Sage, And lavender. The room begins to fill with their combined fragrance. Clara steps back to look at them. That should do. You glance toward the garden. I thought we were putting everything away. Oh no. She looks mildly surprised by that idea. We're only helping it get ready for what comes next. You follow her back outside. This time, She carries a small stack of clean lanterns. Together you place them along the cottage steps, Beside the garden gate. And on a little table near the path to the beach. Clara checks each wick before adding oil. You still use these? Every evening. Even after the summer visitors leave? Especially then, " says Clara. She lights one briefly to make sure the wit catches. A small golden flame appears behind the glass. The sea wind moves through the grasses. The days are getting shorter. You look toward the sea. The afternoon light has already begun to soften. A breeze moves through the grasses, Carrying the faint scent of salt. Clara gathers the empty oil bottle. That's enough work for now. You look at her basket. That's it? For now, She says, Smiling. You don't want to finish everything on the first afternoon. You laugh. I thought that was the point. Absolutely not, She says, Hanging the basket over her arm. If we finished everything today, What would we do tomorrow? You consider this? Eat soup? She nods. Now you're learning. Clara turns toward the narrow path beyond the garden gate. You should go down to the beach before the rain comes, She says. You look toward the gathering clouds. Without you? She smiles. I've seen that beach nearly every day for 40 years. Then she nods toward the sea. You haven't. She opens the gate for you. Beyond it, A sandy path winds through the tall grasses toward the water. The sea stretches beyond them, Wide and blue-gray beneath the September sky. Clara remains by the garden gate while you start down the path alone. And with the fragrance of rosemary still clinging faintly to your fingers, You make your way toward the shore. The path winds gently through the tall grasses. With every step, The sea becomes more visible until the grasses fully open and the beach stretches out before you. It is almost completely empty. No umbrellas dot the sand. No children run toward the waves. No brightly colored towels hang from chairs. Only a few footprints follow the waterline, Already beginning to soften beneath the incoming tide. You stop for a moment. The beach seems to stretch endlessly in both directions, Wide and quiet beneath the September sky, As though the sea and sand have expanded into all the space summer left behind. For a moment, You take it all in. The salt wind moves through the grasses behind you. And this steady rhythm of the waves fills the quiet. You slip off your shoes, Leaving them near the edge of the path. Then walk toward the water. The sand is cool beneath your feet. A wave reaches toward you, Spreading a thin sheet of water across the shore, Before slipping quietly back into the sea. You take a slow breath. The air tastes faintly of salt, Cool and clean. And you understand why Clara sent you here. You begin walking along the edge of the water. There is nowhere in particular you need to go. No destination waiting farther down the beach. Only the shoreline curving gently ahead of you and the sea moving beside you. The tide has left little treasures scattered across the wet sand. Smooth stones darkened by the water, A shell striped with cream and rose, Ribbons of seaweed purled into delicate shapes. And pieces of wood polished smooth by the sea. You remember something Clara said earlier. The changing tides have a way of uncovering things. And now you begin to understand what she meant. With every few steps there seems to be something new to notice. A trail of tiny bird prints stitched across the sand. Tiny bubbles appearing at the edge of a wave, Then disappearing almost as quickly as they came. A little farther on, A piece of seaweed has curled itself into an almost perfect circle. It looks a lot like a tiny wreath, You think, Made for some impossibly small seaside door. You smile at the thought, Leave it where it is, And continue walking. There is so much to notice once you stop searching for anything in particular, You think. Farther out, The water rises and falls beneath the pale afternoon sky. A gull circles overhead. Behind you, Beach grass whispers along the dunes. And around you, The salt wind moves steadily across the shore. For a while, You don't think about where you came from or where you'll go tomorrow. There is only this beach. This afternoon. And the quiet pleasure of having nowhere you need to be. You take a deep breath, Allowing that thought to sink in. Another wave reaches the shore. You let the cool water wash over your feet, Then watch it return to the sea. Near the edge of the tide, Something catches your attention. You bend to look more closely. It is a small show. Soft gray with a pearly sheen. A delicate spiral turns toward its center, Its surface catching the pale September light. You lift it into your palm. For a moment, You consider slipping it into your pocket. A little reminder of this afternoon and this nearly empty beach. Instead, You turn it slowly between your fingers, Admiring the smooth curve of its surface. Then you crouch and place it gently back where you found it. Perhaps tomorrow the tide will carry it somewhere new. Or perhaps it will still be here, Waiting for someone else to notice it. You stand and brush the sand from your fingertips. For just a moment, You glance back at the shell, Still resting where the tide left it, Then continue along the shore. The sun has lowered while you've been walking. Its light stretches across the water now, Soft and silvery beneath the gathering clouds. The salt wind has strengthened, Moving through your hair and carrying the first cool hint of evening. You look toward the horizon. The clouds Clara noticed earlier have moved closer now. Their undersides are beginning to deepen to gray. You remember her words that rain would arrive before the night was over, And wonder if perhaps it is time to begin making your way back. But before you turn, Movement high above the water catches your eye. At first, It is only a shifting line against the darkening sky. Then you realize what you're seeing. Birds. Far above the water, A long, Wavering line of them is moving along the coast. You shade your eyes with one hand and stand at the edge of the sea, Watching as they come closer. The birds move steadily along the coastline, Their formation changing as you watch. One bird falls behind, Then moves forward again. Another takes its place near the front. From this distance you can't hear their calls. There is only the sound of the sea and the sight of them traveling across the wide evening sky. For several moments, You remain where you are, Watching their slow journey above the water. There is something incredibly peaceful about it. But they seem to know where they are going, Following a path you cannot see. You wonder how many times they have made this journey, Guided by something older than memory. There is no hesitation in their movement. No sense of leaving something behind. They simply travel on, Because it is time. Another group appears farther out. Smaller at first, Then gradually coming into view. You watch as the two groups move along the same invisible route, Steadily making their way down the coast. And for some reason you find that comforting. Below them, The sea continues its familiar rhythm. Waves reach the shore, Then draw away again. Behind you, The beach stretches quietly toward the horizon. Ahead, The dunes rise gently beside the shore. And above it all, The birds continue on. You think of the cottage garden. The herbs now hanging beside the kitchen window. The lanterns waiting for earlier sunsets. And you realize that everything here seems to know exactly what comes next. The garden, The birds, Even the sea. Continuing its endless movement toward the shore and away again. You watch until the first group has traveled far along the coastline, Their shapes growing smaller and smaller against the sky. The clouds have moved closer now, Their undersides darker. Soft gray spreading across the fading light. The wind has changed. It moves more strongly along the shore, Bending the beach grass toward the dunes. The air feels different, Too. Cooler now, With something clean and damp carried from far out over the water. The first hint of rain, You suppose. You turn toward the cottage and begin making your way back. Eventually, You reach the path leading up from the beach. At the top, You turn for one last look. Most of the birds have disappeared from sight. The beach below is empty again. Waves continue reaching the shore, One after another, Just as they did when summer filled this place with people. And just as they will when colder days arrive. You turn from the sea and follow the path through the grasses toward the salt wind cottage. As you come closer, You see Clara near the garden gate. She is lighting one of the lanterns you prepared earlier, Cupping one hand around the tiny flame until it catches. She looks up as you approach. Good walk? You smile. Very good walk. You glance back toward the sea. There were birds, Hundreds of them, I think, Flying along the coast. Clara follows your gaze. The first travelers. You've seen them, You ask? Every September. She watches the last few distant shapes for a moment. They're right on time. Then she looked toward the gathering clouds, And so is the rain. You smile. Of course it is. Clara closes the lantern glass, And its warm light glows beside the garden gate. Come on, She says. I promised you soup. You follow her toward the cottage. And as the afternoon begins to fade, You realize just how much you've been looking forward to it. By the time you reach the cottage, The afternoon has begun slipping into evening. Clara opens the garden gate, And you follow her inside. The herbs you gathered earlier hang in small bundles near the kitchen window, Their fragrance greeting you as soon as you step through the door, Rosemary, Sage, And lavender mingling with the faint scent of cedar. Clara pauses beside the kitchen window. The curtain lifts gently as a ribbon of cool air slips through the narrow opening. There it is, She says. What? The salt wind. She smiles and closes the window just enough to soften the draft. It always finds the cottage just before the rain. You follow her into the sitting room. The little brass wind bell above the window gives one faint note. Then the room becomes quiet again. Beside the fireplace, A shallow bowl holds pale shells and smooth stones. Some are almost white. Others are gray, Green, Or blue. Their surfaces softened by years of water. They look as though they have always belonged here. Clara turns toward the fireplace. I think we've earned our soup. You smile. I was hoping you'd say that. While Clara tends to the fire, You bring two more lanterns from the kitchen. One goes on the mantle, Another on the table near the window. Clara lights them, And small pools of golden light begin to gather around the room. Outside, The sky has deepened to dark blue. The first drops of rain touch the window. Clara glances toward the glass. Right on time! Soon a small fire is burning in the hearth. You settle into one of the chairs while Clara disappears into the kitchen. There is the quiet clatter of a pot, A cupboard opening, The sound of a wooden spoon against a bowl. Then a wonderful fragrance begins drifting into the room. You follow it. Clara is ladling soup into two deep bowls. Potatoes. Leeks. Carrots, And herbs from the garden. Beside them she places thick slices of bread. Excellent soup, You ask? Clara looks at you. I have a reputation to maintain. You carry everything to the little table near the fire. Outside the rain becomes steadier, Tapping more insistently against the windows. You take your first spoonful. The soup is warm and simple, Exactly the kind of food you want after walking beside a cool sea. Clara tears off a piece of bread. For a while you eat without much conversation, The fire settling with an occasional crackle. Beyond the windows, The garden is beginning to disappear into blackness. You think about the beach only a short while ago, The birds moving south, The herbs gathered from the garden. And the empty beach and the little shell you left beside the tide. You really do like this time of year, Don't you? You ask. Clara looks toward the rain-darkened window. I do. More than summer? She considers the question. No. You wait. Just differently. She dips a piece of bread into her soup. I've never felt the need to choose a favorite season. " Poirot looks toward the fire. Summer has long evenings and open windows, She pauses. Autumn has soup, You laugh. A strong argument, You say. And that's all she says about it. Outside, Summer is quietly giving way. Inside, The lanterns are glowing, The fire is warm, And the rain continues its steady rhythm against the roof. By the time you finish your soup, The rain has settled in completely. Falling steadily now against the windows, A little louder against the cottage roof. Clara carries the bowls into the kitchen, You bring the cups, And together you clear away the remains of supper. There is something pleasant about these small tasks. Warm water fills the sink. Clara washes. You dry. And neither of you feels much need to talk. Outside the kitchen window, The garden has become a collection of shadowy shapes. The rosemary bends in the rain. Drops gather along the window glass, Catching the warm light from inside. You hang the last fish towel beside the sink. Clara looks around the kitchen. That will do. You have begun to understand that Clara says this when she has decided enough has been done for one day. And you are beginning to like the phrase. Back in the sitting room, The fire has burned lower. Clara adds a small piece of wood, Just enough to keep it going a while longer. You settle into one of the deep chairs and take a book from the shelf beside you. Clara takes the chair across from you. She picks up a small basket of mending from beside the hearth and begins working a needle through the edge of an old linen cloth. For a while, The two of you settle into the quiet evening. You turn a page now and then. Clara's needle moves slowly through the linen. And beyond the windows, Rain travels and silver trails down the glass. The lantern beside you casts a warm circle of light across the floor. And beneath it all, You can still hear the distant sound of the sea. A stronger gust of wind moves around the cottage. The windows give a faint rattle. Clara doesn't look up from her sewing. This cottage has heard much louder storms than this one, She assures you. Another gust passes, And then the rain settles back into its gentle rhythm. You lean deeper into the chair. The room has become wonderfully cozy. Warm enough from the fire. Cool enough near the window to remind you of the weather outside. Clara looks toward the dark window. Tomorrow morning, Everything will smell different. Because of the rain? She nods. The garden. The beach, Even the cottage. You imagine stepping outside in the morning, The grasses wet, The air washed clean, The sea beside a new September morning. Clara rises and begins extinguishing the lanterns you lit earlier, One near the window, Then another beside the kitchen door. The cottage grows a little dimmer with each one. She leaves only the lantern beside the fireplace glowing. That's enough for tonight, She says. There is that idea again. This time, Though, You understand it differently. The herbs have been gathered. The lanterns prepared. The garden has received its rain. The cottage is warm against the salt wind outside. You are protected and safe. Nothing else needs your attention tonight. Clara picks up a small lamp from the table. I think it's time I showed you your room. You rise from the chair. The fire gives one quiet crackle behind you. Then you follow Clara toward the narrow staircase at the back of the cottage. As you begin to climb, You notice the rain sounds a little different overhead. Closer now. Steady against the roof. And with every step, The cottage seems to grow quieter. At the top of the stairs, Clara leads you along a short hallway beneath a sloping roof. She stops at the last door and opens it. This one is yours. You step inside. The room is small but wonderfully inviting. A wide bed rests beneath the eaves. Covered in white linens and a faded blue quilt. Beside it stands a little wooden table with a lamp. A glass of water. And a small ceramic vase holding a few sprigs of lavender from the garden. Across the room, An old chair sits beside the window. Clara walks over and draws back the curtain. Beyond the glass, The sea is almost completely hidden in darkness, But you can hear it. Waves reaching the shore, Then pulling back again. Faint beneath the steady rain. You move closer to the window. Drops travel slowly down the glass, Catching the lamplight before disappearing into the darkness below. I like this room, You say sincerely. Clara smiles. So do I. She reaches for an extra blanket folded across the chair and places it at the foot of the bed. The nights are getting cooler, She says in explanation. You run your hand across the quilt. The fabric is soft from years of use. Clara walks toward the door, Then pauses. Breakfast whenever you wake. No schedule, You ask? Not in September, Clara says. You smile. Good night, Clara. Good night, She says, Closing the door softly behind her. For the first time since arriving at the cottage, You are alone. You change into something comfortable, Then turn down the bed. The sheets are cool when you first slip beneath them, But they feel nice and comforting. You pull the quilt over yourself and settle into the pillows. Above you, Rain moves softly across the sloping roof. The sound is different here than it was downstairs, Closer and yet gentler somehow. And beneath it, Almost hidden, The sea continues its slow rhythm along the shore. You think briefly of the afternoon. The herbs gathered from the garden. The quiet beach. The birds traveling fell. The little shell you admired and left beside the tide. Already those memories seem farther away, Softened somehow by the darkness and the rain. Tomorrow the garden will be wet, The beach will hold whatever the tide has brought overnight, And Clara will be somewhere below, Making tea. The thought makes you smile. Then you reach over and dim the bedside lamp. The room grows dark. Only the faintest light remains at the window, Softened by the rain. You settle deeper beneath the quilt. The cottage creaks quietly around you. Old wood responding to the wind and weather, Then becoming still again. There is something deeply comforting about sleeping in a place that has sheltered so many nights before this one. So many summers, So many autumns, So many storms that eventually passed. And now. For this one night. The Salt Land Cottage shelters you. You close your eyes. Rain continues softly overhead. Far beyond the window, Waves reach the shore and return to the sea. Again. And again. While the cottage settles in for the night. The cottage has grown wonderfully quiet. Rain continues its soft rhythm across the roof. While somewhere beyond the darkness, The sea moves gently against the shore. You are warm beneath the quilt. Comfortable, Sleepy. And completely settled. There is nothing more to do tonight. Downstairs, The last fire is fading in the hearth. The herbs you gathered hang beside the kitchen window. Outside the rain falls across the garden. PMT Beach. And the grasses along the dunes. By morning, Everything will be a little different. Freshland by the Rain Touched by a new day. But morning can wait. For now, You can simply rest here beneath the old cottage roof. Listening as rain and distant waves blend into one soft, Steady sound. Your thoughts begin to drift. The cottage settles around you, And you begin to settle with it. Slowly. Tastefully. And to sleep. Good night.