The Sleepy Train - A Sleepy Story

Hello,

My friend.

Welcome to your sleep story.

My name is Stephen Dalton.

I'm an Irish storyteller,

And it's my great privilege to be the voice that you listen to as you go to sleep tonight.

Tonight,

I invite you aboard the sleepy train.

This,

As you might imagine,

Being in one of my stories,

Is no ordinary train.

There is,

You might say,

A little bit of magic aboard.

There are five sleeping carriages,

Each one different.

One is like a rainforest,

Another like a library,

Another like a beach.

And each night aboard the train,

You will sleep in a different carriage.

I really hope you enjoy this story,

And let me know in the comments where you are in the world as you listen tonight,

And what time it is with you.

Okay,

Let's do the relaxation session now,

Which will take a few minutes,

Before tonight's sleep story.

I'm going to count down from ten to one,

And as I do,

Allow yourself to let go more and more.

Ten.

Feel the support of the bed beneath you,

Or the floor,

Or whatever you lie upon tonight.

And beneath what you lie upon,

Feel a deeper support,

A constant support.

The support of the earth,

The support of our planet,

Our home.

And as you become aware of that support,

See if you can sink into this moment a little more now.

Just let go a little more now.

Nine.

You are safe.

Allow my voice to be an anchor of safety tonight,

To be a friend,

To be a gentle guide that only ever brings you to safe places,

To warm and cozy places,

To places that enable and support your sleep.

Ten.

Trust that my voice is a friend tonight.

Feel into your body.

Notice where you might still be holding tonight.

Notice where you may have pain.

Notice anything.

Maybe there's tension in your feet,

Or in your lower legs,

Or in your thighs.

Maybe you're holding in your belly,

Or your chest.

I know I often hold tension in my face and in my shoulders.

Ten.

Just see if you can soften a little now.

This is a time for kindness to yourself and to your body.

Seven.

The day is done.

Whatever has been,

Has been.

And whatever will be.

Eight.

But right now is this moment.

Your thoughts can't change what has gone before.

Your thoughts can't change what will come tomorrow.

Nine.

Your brain needs rest now.

So as thoughts come and go,

Don't fight them,

But don't hold onto them either.

Ten.

See them.

Watch them float away,

Like leaves on a moonlit river,

Or clouds passing through a starlit sky.

Six.

This is your moment.

This is your time.

You have earned this moment of kindness to yourself.

Seven.

You deserve to have peace in your life.

We all do.

So as you become aware of that fact,

As you understand that we all deserve peace,

See if you can settle into this moment a little more now,

Letting your body know that it's really time.

Time for rest.

Peace lives within you.

It is a constant friend,

Waiting to be found,

Waiting to be felt.

Where does it live within you?

Maybe it's in your chest,

Or in your heart.

Just know that it's always there,

And tonight,

You can find it.

Perhaps allow a little gratitude now.

Gratitude for the simple things,

The breath in your body,

The beauty of this world,

That you can find when you look for it.

The ones you love.

The ones who love you,

Or who have loved you.

Gratitude for the shelter you have tonight,

Whatever it may be.

Begin to engage with your imagination now.

Begin to see the sleepy train station Here,

Everyone wears pajamas,

Because everyone is getting on a sleepy train,

Trains towards sleep.

This is a kind place,

A welcoming place,

Where everyone has a shared objective,

And everyone is supporting you in yours.

Two,

Check in with your body one more time now.

There's no need for any more holding on,

For any more tension.

Your body has worked hard for you today,

It's time to give it rest.

Completely letting go now,

As I tell you tonight's sleep story.

The sleepy train station sits a little apart from everywhere else.

The sort of place you don't stumble upon by accident,

It's evening when you arrive,

And the lamps along the platform are already on,

Doing their quiet job.

Everyone waiting is dressed for bed,

Slippers,

Soft trousers,

Old jumpers that have known many nights.

No one looks embarrassed about it,

This is the rule here,

And it feels sensible.

Above the station roof,

The moon has just shown up,

Not making a fuss,

Just letting the night know it's on duty.

The train itself is already in place,

As if it's been waiting for you.

There are six carriages and an engine at the front,

Each carriage is longer than you expect,

With windows that seem designed for looking out without needing to.

Nothing rushes,

No whistles,

No shouting.

The doors are open,

And a soft warmth spills onto the platform.

The kind you feel before you even step inside.

People board slowly,

Greeting one another with small smiles.

There are five of you in total,

And somehow,

That feels just right.

No one asks you what you do for a living,

Or where you've come from.

And once you are all on board,

It isn't long before the train pulls out of the station.

Very sleepily,

Very lazily.

Soon,

You will meet the train conductor.

He's just running a little late,

Because he slept in.

So first,

You decide to explore.

You notice,

As you walk along the train,

That each carriage is a bedroom of its own kind.

The first carriage is quite a remarkable one to start with.

Trees grow inside it,

Actual trees,

Their trunks rising straight from the floor of the carriage,

As if the train politely decided to build itself around them.

Wooden walkways wind gently between the branches.

And up in the middle,

There's a proper treehouse,

With a large bed built into it.

Leaves move slowly,

Even though there's no wind,

And the air smells clean and alive.

The next carriage feels completely different.

It's an old library,

The kind with tall shelves and worn steps,

And books that look like they've been waiting a long time to be opened.

Above it all,

Is a rounded glass roof,

Thick and strong,

With rain falling steadily across it.

But only on this carriage,

You see,

It's almost like magic.

You can hear every drop clearly,

But nothing ever leaks in.

The bed here is low and wide,

Tucked between shelves,

And the sound of the rain makes it almost impossible to stay awake for long.

Another carriage isn't really a room in the usual sense.

It's space.

Like outer space.

When you step inside,

The walls seem to disappear.

And all you can see are stars,

Slow and distant in every direction.

And you are told that if you want to,

You can feel light almost floating,

As if the idea of weight has been politely switched off for the night.

The bed doesn't feel like it's on the floor at all,

More like it's meeting you wherever you happen to be.

One carriage feels like a quiet beach,

That belongs only to the night.

The floor is pale sand,

Soft underfoot,

Still warm from an earlier sun you never saw.

The bed is set slightly back from the shore,

Raised just enough that you can see the sea without needing to be near it.

The waves roll in slowly,

And then retreat,

Again and again,

Never changing their mind.

The air is open and easy to breathe,

And everything here seems to agree that nothing needs to happen for a long while.

You don't feel watched or exposed.

The beach is wide but gentle.

And the sky above it feels settled,

Rather than vast.

The final carriage is the river carriage,

And it feels older than the rest.

The room is long and narrow,

And the river runs straight through the middle of it,

Clear and calm,

Always moving,

Never hurrying.

Stones line the edges,

Smooth from years of passing water.

The bed sits beside the riverbank,

Close enough that you can hear the flow beside you,

Constant and reliable.

The sixth carriage sits just behind the engine,

And it's the largest of them all.

It isn't a bedroom,

It's a shared room,

Long and wide,

With deep chairs,

Low tables,

Lamps that never glare,

And a feeling that everyone naturally lowers their voice.

The moment they step inside.

This is where people gather during the day,

And where evenings begin.

The floor is thickly carpeted,

The windows generous,

And the whole place feels designed for waiting without impatience.

And this is where you meet the train conductor.

His name is Mr.

McDrowse.

He's an old Scottish man,

With a round face,

Kind eyes,

And a voice that sounds as though it's been used for bedtime stories for most of his life.

He wears a proper conductor's jacket,

Slightly too big for him now,

And he carries a small notebook that looks far more important than it probably is.

When he smiles,

The whole room lights up.

Not too much,

Obviously.

It's not too bright at any point here.

This is a place for sleep.

He begins to speak.

Now,

Then,

He says,

Looking around at all of you.

Welcome aboard.

You've found your way here,

Which is the hardest part done.

He pauses,

As if listening for something only he can hear.

This is the sleepy train.

It doesn't hurry.

It doesn't mind if you wake in the night.

And it doesn't care how long it's been since you last slept well.

That sort of thing doesn't bother us here.

He gives a small nod,

Pleased with himself.

There are five sleeping carriages.

Each one is different,

And each one knows exactly what it's doing.

You won't need to choose.

I'll see to that.

The train and I have had a wee chat about you already.

I'm just joking.

Each night you'll move from one carriage to the next,

So that by the end of the five nights on the train,

You'll have slept in each carriage and experienced the deep rest each one offers.

During the day,

You'll spend your time right here,

In this lovely,

Comfortable carriage.

You'll eat.

You'll sit.

You'll talk if you feel like it,

And won't if you don't.

Mostly,

If you talk at all,

You'll probably talk about sleep.

He lifts a finger just once.

At night,

You'll sleep.

You don't need to try.

You don't need to succeed.

You just lie down and let the carriage do the rest.

Another pause.

Softer now.

The train will keep moving.

Whether you're awake or asleep,

You won't miss anything important.

He closes his notebook gently.

So,

For tonight,

I'll tell each of you where you're staying.

Tomorrow night will be different,

And the night after that will be different again.

A final look around.

Warm and certain.

Now then,

Let's get you settled.

There are four others on the train,

And you notice them more clearly,

Now that you've had a moment to sit.

One of them is a woman,

Who holds her hands together in her lap,

As if she's learned not to expect rest.

She says she falls asleep easily enough,

But wakes again and again.

She speaks calmly about it,

As though it's an old arrangement.

She's tired of arguing with.

There's a man who tries to make light of things.

He smiles quickly,

And talks about how he can sleep,

Technically.

If you count short stretches on sofas and trains,

And borrowed beds.

When he stops talking,

Though,

His shoulders drop a little,

And it's clear he's more tired than he lets on.

Another woman sits back in her chair and listens.

She says she used to sleep well for years,

Then one day didn't.

She's here because she'd like to remember what it felt like when sleep came without warning.

Negotiation.

The last person is quiet.

When they speak,

They say they sleep deeply some nights,

And not at all on others,

And the unpredictability is hard.

He doesn't ask for guarantees.

He's come because the idea of a place that moves steadily through the night sounded like something worth trusting.

And then you introduce yourself,

And tell them a little bit.

About your sleepy life.

Mr.

McDrows returns now,

Touching the brim of his hat.

Right,

He says quietly,

Looking at you over his glasses.

Come along now,

I think I've just the place for you tonight.

He leads you down the softly lit corridor,

The train making that low,

Comforting sound beneath your feet.

He stops at a door that looks perfectly ordinary,

Until he opens it,

And then he steps aside,

Letting you see properly.

This one is the tree room,

Or the rainforest room as I like to call it.

You'll see straight away it doesn't behave like a normal carriage.

Trees grow in here because they feel like it,

Not because anyone planted them.

Proper trees,

Roots down to the floor,

Branches up through the ceiling,

And nobody asks how.

He gestures gently inside,

There's a treehouse built right into the middle of it.

That's where your bed is,

Solid mind you,

None of this wobbly nonsense.

The leaves keep their own quiet,

And the air stays just cool enough to be comfortable.

He lowers his voice a fraction.

This room's good for people whose minds like to stay busy.

The trees don't mind that,

They've been busy for years and still manage to sleep.

A small smile.

You don't need to climb if you don't want to,

The room will help with that part.

And if you wake in the night,

Just listen.

This is a kind and calm place,

Filled with lovely sounds to lull you back to sleep.

He steps back,

Satisfied.

Tomorrow night will be somewhere else.

Tonight,

Let the trees take it from here.

And with that,

He leaves you at the doorway,

The room already feeling as though it's been expecting you.

The room settles once the door is closed.

Leaves move softly above you.

Not from wind,

Exactly.

More like a quiet agreement between branches.

The treehouse bed feels solid and kindly made.

And somewhere deep in the carriage,

The train shifts its weight and then grows still again.

You climb into the bed,

And as you lie there,

A gentle glow begins to appear.

It doesn't switch on.

It arrives slowly,

Spreading from the bark of the trees themselves.

The trunks seem warmer now.

The leaves,

Clearer.

Every branch easy on the eyes.

Then you hear the voice.

It's low and unhurried.

And it comes from nearby.

Close enough that you don't feel startled by it at all.

It's almost like you expected it in this magic room.

Ah,

The tree says quietly.

There you are.

You realize that this room is doing something special.

Something magical.

The tree doesn't explain itself.

It doesn't need to.

I'll tell you a small story.

A bedtime story,

If you like,

It says.

A very small one.

And then it begins.

There was a tree that worried it wasn't doing enough.

It stood all day,

Folding up branches,

Growing leaves,

Making shade.

And still it thought there must be more.

It finally rested.

It let the dark take over.

And while it slept,

Everything it needed to do kept happening anyway.

The leaves shift gently above you.

When the tree woke,

Nothing had gone wrong.

The sky was still there and was still holding it.

And the tree learned something important.

Rest was part of the work.

The voice grows quieter now.

That's all,

The tree says.

No more than that.

The glow softens.

The leaves return to their slow,

Steady sound.

The train begins to move almost imperceptibly.

And the bed seems to meet you more fully than before.

You don't have to decide when to sleep.

It's already finding you.

Without announcing itself,

The light in the trees fades back into ordinary green.

And at some point,

Without you noticing the exact moment,

The night lets go.

You're back in the large shared carriage with the others.

Everyone looks a little different.

Not dramatically changed,

Just eased.

Faces softer,

Shoulders lower.

Someone mentions you.

They slept longer than expected.

Someone else says they slept the entire night.

There's no comparison,

Though.

It's just nice to see progress.

There's tea.

There's breakfast.

There's quiet conversation.

Mr.

MacDrowse passes through once,

Nods to himself,

And carries on.

The train moves steadily on.

And through the windows,

The day drifts by.

No one talks about the rooms in detail.

They don't need to.

It's enough to sit together,

Rested,

Knowing there will be another night,

Another bed.

And nothing required of you,

Except showing up.

Evening finds the train again.

Quietly,

As if it never really left.

The moon appears in the window beside you,

Keeping pace for a while,

Pale and curious.

The shared carriage grows calmer,

Without anyone suggesting it should.

Voices lowering.

Movements slowing.

The day gently stepping aside.

Mr.

MacDrowse arrives as though on cue.

His jacket neat,

His notebook already in hand.

He smiles,

Looks around at the five of you,

And speaks in that steady,

Bedtime voice of his.

Well now,

He says,

That was a good first night.

You'll notice I didn't say perfect.

We don't aim for that sort of thing here.

Good is more than enough.

He taps the notebook once.

Tonight,

You'll find things a little quieter inside your head.

Or maybe not.

Either way,

The room will manage just fine.

All you need to do is follow along.

He nods to you.

Come with me.

He leads you down the carriage,

Past doors you already recognize,

And stops at one with a brass handle,

Polished smooth.

It grows by years of use.

He opens it slowly.

Ah,

Yes,

He says,

The library.

Inside,

The room stretches upward.

Lined with tall shelves,

Filled with books of every size,

Their spines worn and friendly.

Above it all is a wide glass roof,

Curved and strong,

With rain falling steadily across it.

The bed sits low between the shelves.

This room's for minds that like to keep turning pages,

Mr.

McDrowess says quietly.

The books don't mind if you never open them.

They're happy just being nearby.

He steps back.

Listen to the rain,

He adds.

It's very good at finishing thoughts for you.

Then he leaves you there.

The door closing softly,

The rain already doing its work.

Now the room grows quieter still,

And a soft glow appears among the shelves.

Not from lamps,

Not from the ceiling,

But from the books themselves.

It starts here and there,

Between pages,

Along the edges of spines,

As if the stories inside are gently waking up.

The light spreads slowly,

Until the whole library is held in a warm,

Kindly brightness.

That feels made especially for evening.

You don't need to sit up.

You don't need to reach for anything.

One book,

Not the biggest,

And not the smallest,

Eases itself free from the shelf.

It opens with a careful sound,

The sort made by something that knows its welcome.

The pages turn on their own,

Finding the right place,

Without fuss.

And then,

The book begins to read.

It says,

In a voice as calm as the rain,

That there was a person who carried too many unfinished thoughts to bed each night.

They lined them up carefully,

Thinking they might deal with them later.

But later never came,

And the thoughts grew tired of waiting.

The pages turn.

One night,

The thoughts decided to rest instead.

They lay themselves down,

One by one,

And agreed to be quiet until morning.

Some of them never bothered getting back up.

Others returned,

Smaller,

And easier to manage.

And the person slept,

Surprised at how little effort it took.

Another pause,

Another page.

The book you are listening to learned long ago that stories do not mind being left halfway through.

They wait patiently.

They don't disappear.

They don't complain.

They understand that rest is part of remembering.

The glow softened slightly now,

As if the books are settling back into themselves.

That is all for tonight.

The book says,

The rest can wait.

The pages close.

The book returns to its place.

The rain continues above you,

And the bed seems to welcome you more fully than before.

There is nothing left to follow.

Sleep has already found its place.

Morning arrives again in its own time.

And everyone gathers once more in the shared courage.

Faces look rested now.

Conversations lighter.

Someone mentions dreaming.

The train continues on,

Steady and unbothered,

As if it has nowhere urgent to be.

Before the day has time to stretch very far,

Mr.

MacDrowse appears again,

Notebook under his arm.

Already smiling.

Well then,

He says quietly,

As if not to startle the calm.

Shall we see where you're off to tonight?

He gives you a small nod,

And turns down the corridor.

The train humming gently beneath your steps,

Leading you on toward the next room.

Mr.

MacDrowse opens the door,

And steps aside without ceremony.

Inside,

The room barely feels like a room at all.

The walls seem to fall away the moment you enter,

Leaving only space.

Wide,

Calm,

And endlessly patient.

You see stars everywhere,

Close enough to touch,

Far enough not to intrude.

The bed rests lightly beneath you,

As if it's decided not to press down too hard.

There is a weightlessness here,

A feeling of letting go deeply.

And as the night deepens,

The stars grow clearer,

As though they've been waiting for the lights to be lowered.

And after a while,

A voice speaks.

It's small but certain,

And it comes from one of the stars nearby.

Good evening,

It says.

You don't need to look around.

I'm right here.

You understand,

Easily,

That this room has its own rules.

I'll tell you something we learned a long time ago.

The star says,

We shine,

Yes,

But most of our time is spent simply staying where we are.

There's a pause,

Long enough to settle.

Once,

A star worried it wasn't moving fast enough.

Others were racing about,

Becoming this or that,

Exploding dramatically,

Making a show of things.

This star stayed put,

Night after night,

It held its place.

And slowly,

Without meaning to,

It became something people relied on.

They looked up and knew where they were,

Not because the star hurried,

But because it didn't.

So,

Rest,

The star says.

Staying is doing enough.

That's all the star says.

The voice fades without goodbye.

The stars remain,

Steady and unconcerned.

And the bed feels lighter than before,

As if it's happy to let you drift.

Sleep meets you here now.

It knows where to find you.

The next day slips by,

Almost without friction.

Everyone gathers again in the shared courage.

A little brighter now.

A little more at ease in their own skin.

There is more laughter than before.

People compare notes in a loose way,

Nothing analyzed,

Nothing solved.

Someone says the stars felt closer than expected.

Someone else says they slept straight through.

No one tries to copy anyone else's night.

The train carries on,

Steady and dependable.

And before the day has a chance to stretch or grow tired,

Evening returns.

The light shifts.

The windows darken.

The moon appears again.

Right on time.

Mr.

McDrows arrives,

Notebook tucked under his arm.

Good,

He says,

Looking around with approval.

Very good indeed.

He closes the notebook without opening it.

Come along.

I think tonight calls for something simpler.

He leads you down the corridor and stops at another door.

When he opens it,

The sound of a train.

The sound reaches you first.

This one's the beach,

He says quietly.

Inside,

The floor is soft sand,

Pale and smooth,

Holding the warmth of a day you never needed to see.

The bed sits back from the shoreline,

Perfectly placed,

While the sea rolls in and out at a distance,

Unhurried and certain.

Mr.

McDrows nods once,

Satisfied.

Nothing to work out here,

He says.

Just listen.

The water's very good at counting things down.

He leaves you there,

The waves already finding their rhythm,

The night ready to do the rest.

You settle into your bed,

And after a while,

The sound changes slightly as the ocean begins to speak.

I see you,

It says so.

You don't need to sit up.

The water rolls in,

Then out again.

I'll tell you a short one.

The ocean says,

I'm very good at short ones.

A pause.

There was someone who thought that rest had to be earned.

They counted their days carefully,

Measuring effort,

Deciding what to do next.

Waiting when they deserved to stop.

They came to me tired,

Carrying all that measuring with them.

So I did what I always do.

I arrived.

I didn't ask questions.

I didn't keep score.

And slowly,

They noticed something.

The ocean never changes.

It checks if it's done enough.

It moves because that's what it does.

And when it stops for a moment,

That's part of the movement too.

That's what tonight is for you.

No earning.

No deciding.

Just arriving.

And then leaving the rest behind.

The water settles back into its steady pattern.

Nothing more needs to be said.

The beach holds you.

The sound keeps time.

And sleep moves in,

Like a kind old friend visiting.

By the next day,

The shared courage feels different again.

Closer.

Familiar.

People sit nearer without noticing they've done it.

There's easy talk now.

Small smiles that don't need explaining.

A sense that everyone is being carried by the same thing.

No one rushes the moment.

No one needs to.

As evening settles in,

Mr.

McDrowse appears once more.

Calm as ever.

He gives you a nod and gestures down the corridor.

Last stop for you,

He says quietly.

This one's a favourite.

He opens the door and the sound reaches you first.

Water.

Steady and continuous.

This is the river,

He says.

It knows how to keep going without effort.

He steps aside and lets you enter and then bids you goodnight.

The room feels long and calm,

Shaped by the sound running through it.

The river moves slowly,

Straight and steady beside you.

Clear water passing over smooth stones,

Never stopping,

Never rushing.

The bed is set close to the bank,

Solid and low.

Built as if it has always belonged there.

When you lie down,

The mattress meets you gently and the sound of the water seems to line itself up with your breathing.

After a while,

The river speaks.

Its voice is quiet but constant,

The way it has always been.

You've done well to come this far,

It says,

Not by trying,

By staying.

The water continues on.

I'll tell you something simple.

Once,

The river worried about where it was going.

It watched itself move day after day and wondered if it should hurry or slow or turn back.

It stopped wondering and just flowed.

It didn't miss anything.

It didn't lose anything.

It didn't lose itself.

It simply carried on and everything it needed came to meet it along the way.

That's how sleep works too.

You don't chase it,

You let it pass through you and you go with it.

The voice fades back into the movement.

The river keeps going,

Doing what it has always done.

And the bed feels steady beneath you.

You are warm and safe and cosy.

There is nothing left to follow,

Nothing to reach.

And the sleepy train moves on through the night and you rest now carried along with it.