The Book of Forgotten Things - A Magical Bedtime Story for Grownups - Rest: Sleepy Bedtime Stories

Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:01):
Good evening and welcome to rest, your sanctuary for peaceful
sleep and relaxation. Whether you're escaping daily stresses or seeking
a nightly companion, you're in the right place. My name
is Jessica, and I'll be your host this evening. Before

(00:27):
we begin, why don't you turn off your screens and
turn down your volume. Now that's done, let's unwind and
help you ease into a blessed rest. The night is

(00:53):
quiet now, the day has softened at its edges, and
your body d knows its time to rest. There's nothing
to do nowhere to be, only this moment, this breath,
and the comfort of being held by stillness. Tonight we

(01:20):
return to a place just beyond waking and just before dreams,
a place where moonlight spills across quiet floors, where the
air smells of parchment and tea, and where memories aren't lost,
they're just waiting to be remembered. This is the third

(01:46):
story in the Library between Dreams, a series of gentle
tales that drift between memory and dream. Tonight's book is
called the Book of Forgotten Things, a story of quiet hallways,

(02:07):
glowing books, and the soft presence of the librarian who
waits there, always knowing the exact moment you'll return. So
close your eyes, let your breath slow, and follow me

(02:28):
to the library. There is a moment just before dreams begin,
when everything becomes quieter.

Speaker 2 (02:44):
The room is still.

Speaker 1 (02:46):
The air hums gently, like a lullaby, held just beneath hearing.
The mattress holds you close, soft and familiar. Your limbs
feel heavy, but in the nicest of ways, they are

(03:10):
not weighed down. They are simply settled, supported and wrapped
in calm. You lie there, your eyes half closed, your
breath slow and quiet, in.

Speaker 2 (03:31):
Out, in out.

Speaker 1 (03:38):
Tonight feels different somehow. It's a feeling like something soft
has been misplaced, like the name of a song you
once loved, hovering on the very edge of your thought,
or a dream that left behind only the feeling of

(04:00):
having been held. Your body sinks a little deeper into
the bed. There is nothing to chase, nothing to fix,
Only this stillness, only this breath. And then, like a

(04:23):
curtain drawing open in the softest way, a hallway unfolds
before you. Its light is not bright, It is gentle moonlight,
stretched into beams that shimmer faintly beneath your feet. The

(04:45):
path doesn't beckon with urgency. It simply waits, like a
memory remembered just in time. The hallway smells like old partches,
like warm tea steeped slowly, like something familiar you can't

(05:08):
quite name, maybe the corner of a favorite book or
the fabric of a well loved coat. You rise without effort,
carried more than walking. You're just floating, really drifting forward,

(05:31):
with no sense of time, only softness. As the moonlight
path opens wider, you begin to hear it, that gentle,
familiar hush, the one that lives in the silence between

(05:51):
the turning of pages, between your inhale and your exhale.
The air becomes warmer. Here, wrapped in it, you move slower,
your thoughts loosening like ribbon from a gift. At the

(06:13):
end of the hallway stands the librarian. He is just
as you remember, tall, composed, wrapped in a robe that
shifts slowly like mist. His presence is steadying. He does

(06:36):
not speak right away. You remember faintly that this is
his pattern. He simply stands with you in the stillness,
like someone who knows exactly what to say and when
not to say anything at all. When he does speak.

(07:01):
His voice is like distant waves brushing the shore, slow,
quiet and endlessly patient. You've come back, he says, His
eyes calm and kind, his smile simple and gentle. He

(07:26):
says the words like he is always happy to have
you back here, And truly it feels like it. You
feel welcomed here. You nod slowly. The librarian turns slightly,

(07:48):
and from the warm air beside him, a book begins
to drift forward. Its surface is soft, worn, smooth by
many hands. It glows just a little, not with light,
but with warmth. When it reaches you, it hovers in place,

(08:15):
pulsing faintly beneath your fingertips, just like a heartbeat at rest.
The book of forgotten things, he murmurs. Some things are
not lost, just resting and waiting to return. You hold

(08:41):
it gently. The book is ready, and so are you.
The Library between dreams breathes around you, and the story
begins again. The very moment your fingertips touch the first page,

(09:05):
the library fades around you, not with haste, but with grace.
It dissolves like mist into the air, soft and unhurried,
and from the quiet a new world begins to form.

(09:27):
It doesn't land with clarity. It arrives like a memory,
returning slowly. These memories do not come in pictures, but
in feelings. They do not overwhelm you either. It feels
like a floating, quiet stream that carries you gently along.

(09:54):
A warm mist surrounds you. It glows faint, tinged with
the gentle gold of candle light and the soft lavender
of twilight. There are shelves here, but not like those
in the library. These rise from clouds, curving upward in

(10:22):
spiral parts. They do not carry books. Instead, they hold moments.
A child's wooden toy, dulled at the corners by years
of play, A jar sealed with a ribbon, holding the

(10:42):
scent of a rain soaked garden. A letter folded in thirds.
Its edge is worn, the ink faded but still tender.
A scarf pale blue, with threads of lullabies stitched quietly

(11:04):
into its fabric. You think you can almost hear them
if you breathe slowly enough. The air hums barely, a low,
steady sound, like the hush of dreams. Every step you

(11:26):
take is like walking across clouds, or the soft edge
of sleep itself. Nothing is hard or sharp here. Only
curves warmth and time, gently folded in on itself. A

(11:50):
chair appears just ahead, woven from ribbons.

Speaker 2 (11:55):
And cloth and scraps of memory.

Speaker 1 (11:59):
It rocks slightly, as if it had been waiting for
someone to sit. You lower yourself into it, and it
molds to your shape, cradling you with the greatest care,
no pressure and no weight. The archive responds to you.

(12:28):
It is not vibrant or loud, simply quiet and calm,
like a shallow breath. You can feel it, a gentle
rhythm beneath you, beneath everything. The world itself seems to

(12:49):
inhale and exhale with you. A soft breeze passes by.
It doesn't make you cold. It simply brushes your face
like a kiss remembered from childhood, and with it comes

(13:10):
a familiar scent, something warm like cinnamon and steam. It
reminds you of a kitchen you once loved, Though you
can't place when or where, You only know that it
made you feel safe. It felt like home then, and

(13:37):
it feels like home now. Another breeze follows. This one
is laced with a tune. It is not loud, but
it's also not complete, just a melody line you once knew.

(14:00):
You hum it without realizing. It feels like it has
been waiting for you to remember.

Speaker 2 (14:10):
There is no rush here.

Speaker 1 (14:14):
You are not asked to recall everything, or even to
name it. You are simply invited to rest in it,
to feel its settle around you, Like a soft blanket
that is not stitched with memories you must carry, but

(14:37):
with ones that now carry you. The soft archive breathes on,
and you breathe with it. From the misty quiet of
the soft archive, a gentle path begins to appear it.

Speaker 2 (15:00):
It is not marked, not paved.

Speaker 1 (15:03):
Just a slightly brighter stretch of cloud beneath your feet.
It doesn't pull you forward, It simply offers the way,
and you follow. With each slow step, the air grows warmer,

(15:26):
like afternoon sun filtered through sheer curtains. A hush settles
more deeply around you, like someone gently placing a quilt
around your shoulders. Up ahead, you see a door. It

(15:47):
is not shut, but not open either. It is just waiting,
and written on it in delicate scrawl is a sign
that reads the room of small joys. You step through,

(16:11):
and the room greets you like a memory you didn't
know you missed. It is small, but not cramped, cozy.
The walls glow with golden twilight, the kind of light
that feels like it lasts forever. There's a wooden swing

(16:36):
in the corner, hanging low, its ropes soft with age.
It moves gently, not pushed, not pulled, just rocking on
the rhythm of the room. To the left, a blanket

(16:58):
fort care for, constructed with draped sheets and fairy lights.
The lights blink slowly like sleepy fireflies, and the space
within is filled with cushions that seem to cool your
name without uttering a sound. A shelf leans quietly against

(17:25):
the back wall. On it rest the books you used
to read, some with covers nearly forgotten, some with titles
you didn't know you remembered. Their spines are well loved,
their pages softly rumpled. In the corner, a record player

(17:54):
begins to hum. A lullaby drifts out, slow and dreamy.
It doesn't scream loudly, and it's not a sad song,
just calm, like the song was made to quiet the

(18:16):
world and nothing else. You don't need to move quickly.
The room welcomes you exactly as you are. You lower
yourself onto a round cushion on the floor. It's fabric

(18:37):
worn in all the right ways. It hugs your shape
without asking anything from you. Around you, the room doesn't
try to impress or overwhelm. It simply stays. There's a

(18:58):
sound at your side, soft and steady, like the beat
of your own heart. When you remember to pay attention,
you glance over. A dog lies there, round and slow blinking.

(19:21):
Its fur is thick and warm, looking like a hug
made real. It doesn't get up, it doesn't bark. It
just shifts closer, rests its head on your leg, and
exhales a long, slow breath of contentment. You stroke its

(19:50):
back once its tail thumps softly. Then it sleeps, and
so does the room. In a way, everything is still
but awake, quiet but full. You sit there, surrounded by

(20:14):
all the things that once made you feel whole, not
just as a child, not just as someone who once
needed them, but as someone who still carries the softness
of those moments inside. The past doesn't rise up like

(20:38):
a wave. It drifts in like a hand resting gently
on your shoulder.

Speaker 2 (20:48):
You are not visiting it.

Speaker 1 (20:51):
You are remembering that you never left. After a long
quiet while in the room, of small joys. The air
around you begins to shift again. It moves so slowly,

(21:13):
and it seems to tug your hand while it does.
It feels like a soft current brushing the edge of
your awareness. It is an invitation, not a command. You

(21:33):
rise slowly, the cushion giving way with a sigh beneath you,
and you step back into the golden hush. Another path forms,
not made of stone or steps, but of softened earth,

(21:57):
damp with memory and mornings. The air is cooler here,
still warm enough to comfort, but with a quiet clarity
to it. Trees gather overhead, their leaves broad and soft,

(22:20):
rustling like whispered lullabies. You walk beneath them, and the
ground beneath your feet feels like pressed moss. It feels
perfectly pillowy and slow. Up ahead, you hear the gentle

(22:44):
sound of water, but it doesn't rush.

Speaker 2 (22:51):
It trickles.

Speaker 1 (22:52):
It hums, not like a river or even a stream,
but like a lullaby that somehow learned how to flow.
You reach it, a narrow stream weaving through the grove,

(23:13):
glowing faintly in tones of silver blue. The water doesn't sparkle,
it glows dim, like the last light before dreams, and
as you listen more closely, you realize the stream is singing.

(23:40):
Each drop carries something small, a voice once loved, a
laugh you forgot you missed, the gentle cadence of someone
once close, not fully clear, but warm, blurred at the edges,

(24:04):
like old film or soft memories. In half sleep, you
kneel at the edge of the stream, letting your fingers
hover just above the surface. The water doesn't splash, it

(24:25):
welcomes you. You trail your fingertips through it. It feels
neither cold nor warm, just perfect. It carries the softness
of remembered affection, of long ago words said with love,

(24:50):
and soft moments that never demanded anything from you. The
stream doesn't ask you to read, live anything. It simply
lets you feel. It lets you rest. A breeze moves

(25:12):
through the grove, gentle and slow, and just ahead, a
small bridge arches over the stream, made not from wood,
but from something woven. You can't say exactly what it

(25:34):
looks like, lullabies strung into a pattern, threads of sound
made solid. You rise and step onto it. Each footfall
lands lightly and makes a sound not like footsteps, but

(25:57):
like a slow heartbeat. Steady and soft. Sump, pause, sump.
You cross slowly. There's no need to rush. The stream
flows beneath you, and with each step something inside you settles.

Speaker 2 (26:24):
A little deeper.

Speaker 1 (26:27):
At the other side, you pause and glance back. The
stream hushes now, Its echoes fade but not away, just
into quiet, like a song coming to its final note.

(26:48):
It has given what it came to give. You continue walking,
and behind you the echoes rest too. The path leads
you gently forward, curving like a slow breath through mist

(27:11):
and memory. Each step is lighter now, as though the
stream's quiet music has softened your very bones. You feel settled,
not finished, not full, but calm in a way that

(27:32):
asks for nothing more. Ahead, a rounded doorway opens, arched
and low, wrapped in ivy and flickering with soft amber light.
You step inside. It is a circular room, warm, quiet, timeless.

(28:02):
The walls are curved and draped in soft fabric that
ripples slightly, like size moving through velvet. The floor is
padded with woven threads that feel like worn blankets underfoot.

(28:24):
No sharpness, no corners, only curves and hush. In the
center of the room, a candle glows, but it's no
ordinary flame. It flickers in rhythm with the space itself,

(28:48):
like the room is breathing in hail, pours ex hail, glow,
fade glow. Around the candle are seats, not chairs, but deep,

(29:10):
nest like cushions, shaped to hold you completely and designed
to allow you rest. You find one and settle into it.
It rises just slightly to meet your shape, cradling your back,

(29:33):
your neck, your legs. You let go, You melt, you breathe.
You are not alone. Other dreamers are here too, though
no one speaks, no one needs to. They sit in silence,

(29:59):
some with eyes closed, some watching the breathing flame. Each
of them holds something small and glowing in their palms.
A soft photograph, a ribbon with a scent, a note

(30:19):
folded in familiar handwriting, a memory made visible and warm.
The room is still but full. It is not crowded,
It is not loud. It is simply full of presence,

(30:43):
of remembrance, of quiet. You look down and realize you
are holding something too. You're not sure when it appeared,
but there it is, resting in your lap. A fragment

(31:04):
of something once precious, a moment, a feeling, a name,
a person. It glows gently, just enough to feel known.
You remember slowly the things you love, the things that

(31:29):
bring you the most comfort, the things that help you
to rest. Everything is familiar, and it feels like home.
And then he appears, the librarian. He moves quietly through

(31:53):
the circle, his presence like the calm that follows a
deep ea hail. His robe trails softly behind him, stirring
the light without ever breaking it. When he reaches you,

(32:14):
he places a hand, slow and sure on your shoulder.
And then he offers you his hand, and you take
it slowly, but without hesitation.

Speaker 2 (32:32):
No words are needed.

Speaker 1 (32:35):
You have come to associate his presence with peace, calm,
and of the less rest. But still he whispers. His
voice carries no weight, only rest. Everything you need, he says,

(33:02):
is still with you. You feel it, not as an idea,
but as a truce, a warmth, a knowing. The candle
in the center dims, slowly, not extinguished, just preparing for sleep.

(33:30):
The circle begins to soften, to dissolve, like the end
of a long.

Speaker 2 (33:38):
Slow breath.

Speaker 1 (33:41):
The light from the center candle fades into a warm
glow that lingers behind your eyelids and the shapes of
the other dreamers begin to blur, gently, becoming silhouettes of
comfort and calm.

Speaker 2 (34:04):
Around you. The room exhales.

Speaker 1 (34:09):
As the candle's light flickers one final time. Something glows nearby.
It is soft and pulsing and purring. It's a low,
round mirror resting on a velvet pedestal. But this mirror

(34:35):
doesn't reflect your face. It reflects your quietest moments. You
see yourself laughing beneath the tree once forgotten, standing in
the rain, content, holding a hand that brought you peace,

(34:58):
resting your head on a shoulder that brought you comfort.
There's no sound, only feeling, no urgency, only breath. Each
image settles into you. It is not to be relived,

(35:23):
but to remind you you've always carried gentle things, even
when you forgot.

Speaker 2 (35:34):
The mirror dims.

Speaker 1 (35:36):
It has shown what it came to show, and now
you're ready, and with it you feel yourself rising, not
lifting with effort, but being carried. The mist returns, soft

(36:01):
and weightless, folding in from the edges like a familiar blanket.
It does not erase what you've seen. It simply wraps it, keeps,
it preserves it. As you drift upward, the shelves of

(36:25):
the library come back into view. They are glowing faintly,
as if they had been waiting patiently for your return.
The hallway of moonlight opens once more. Its soft silver

(36:49):
light stretches out ahead of you, rippling faintly beneath your feet.
You don't really walk it, you float through it slowly.
With each floating step, your breath sinks deeper.

Speaker 2 (37:12):
In and out.

Speaker 1 (37:17):
Your body feels heavier now, with peace and rest, like
every muscle has been told. You can rest safely.

Speaker 2 (37:30):
Now.

Speaker 1 (37:32):
The air smells of parchment and lavender again, but now
also of something new, A quiet sweetness, like a memory,
has been restored. The hallway narrows, gently, drawing you onward.

(37:56):
The walls dissolve, and you you are back in your
room like you never left. The moonlight halway narrows, but
you don't feel it closing. You feel it settling, like

(38:18):
curtains being drawn at the very end.

Speaker 2 (38:22):
Of a long, gentle day.

Speaker 1 (38:27):
There is a stillness here that isn't empty. It is
full of softness, full of memory, full of rest. You
pause just for a moment where the silver light pools,

(38:49):
and close your eyes, your eyelids slowly falling shut. You
feel yourself being placed gently and lovingly, right where you're
meant to be, not by hands, but by peace itself.

(39:16):
Your bed cradles your weight like it's been waiting all along.
The pillow is soft and familiar beneath your head, the
sheets warm and sighing as you settle in. Your breath

(39:38):
is even now. Your chest rises and falls like the
ocean in the quietest hour of night. And then in
the space just behind your thoughts, just befcely deep, his

(40:01):
voice returns. It's not loud, not close, but inside you,
like a lullaby. You only just remembered. You are whole,

(40:22):
You are held, You are home. Rest now return soon
to the library between dreams, And so

Speaker 2 (40:39):
You do.

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The Book of Forgotten Things - A Magical Bedtime Story for Grownups

Episode Transcript

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