The Library Between Dreams - A Peaceful 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. There's something deeply

(00:51):
calming about the quiet just before sleep, when the lights
are low, your bed is soft beneath you, and the
world outside begins to fade. Maybe you're already nestled under
the covers, or perhaps you're still finding that perfect comfortable position.

(01:16):
Either way, you've come to the right place. Tonight, we're
drifting somewhere a little unusual, a place that doesn't appear
on any map. It only shows itself in the stillness
between waking and dreaming, A floating library hidden among the

(01:39):
folds of sleep, a place where the shelves stretch on
forever and the books hum gently with the stories they hold.
This is the library between dreams and tonight. You are
invited in, among its starlit corridors and moon dusted aisles.

(02:07):
There's a book waiting for you, the Book of stillness.
Its pages whisper, calm, like ripples on a quiet lake.
And as we turn each one, we'll drift a little
deeper into comfort, into quiet, into sleep. So take a

(02:32):
deep breath in and let it out slowly, Let your
thoughts settle, let the day soften, and let's begin tonight's story.

(02:58):
There is a moment just before sleep, when the world softens.
The room is dim and it becomes a quiet cocoon
of shadows and hush. The cool sheets cradle a tired body,

(03:18):
and breath comes slow and shallow, in out, in out,
And somewhere near by, a soft hum settles into the silence.
It's like the night itself is exhaling. After a long day.

(03:44):
The air grows thicker, though not uncomfortably, so, like warm
velvet draping gently over your shoulders. The edges of the
world begin to blur, the ceiling, the walls, the bed.

(04:05):
They all dissolve quietly, like ink fading into water. And
then there is a pause, a stillness, and then there
is a pull. It is more like a beckoning, the

(04:25):
feeling you get when someone calls your name, in a dream,
a sensation, soft and slow, rising from the chest and
carrying you forward or upward, or perhaps inward, it's hard

(04:46):
to tell. Floating, drifting weightless. From the edge of the darkness,
a hallway appears. It is and't lit by lamps but
by moonlight, stretched and shaped into long beams that shimmer

(05:09):
faintly beneath your feet. It glows with a bluish silver,
and the air around it smells like old paper and
lavender and something else, something like night itself. You take

(05:31):
a step, or maybe the hallway moves beneath you. There's
no urgency, no rush. The journey unfolds like a breath,
slow and quiet and calm. The hallway widens, the light

(05:54):
grows softer still, and soon it opens. You've entered a library,
not just any library, not like the ones you've visited before. No,
this one hums, it breathes, it feels alive. The air

(06:23):
here is warm and still. The shelves are carved from
honeyed wood. They stretch tall, but are not imposing, curving
into gentle spirals that seem to bend slightly, as if
acknowledging your presence. Their surfaces glow faintly, as though lit

(06:50):
from within. Books line every shelf, some thick, some small,
some hovering slightly above their places, as if stretching before
returning to rest. A few pages turn themselves in the distance,

(07:14):
slow and careful, like a breeze passing through a dream.
Soft candle lights hover mid air, not attached to anything,
flickering slowly with golden sighs. There are staircases that are

(07:37):
wide and floating. They drift lazily from one level to
the next, never in a hurry. You could step into
one and be carried somewhere anywhere, and it would feel

(07:57):
just right. The space whole stories, yes, but also sleep.
The floors beneath your feet are soft, like moss kissed
by moonlight. The ceiling is high and dark, dotted with

(08:18):
what might be stars, or maybe they're just lights shaped
like stars, softly glowing in quiet constellations. There is no
one else here, just you and the gentle hum of

(08:39):
the library, between dreams, and somehow you know this is
only the beginning. Somewhere between the hush of candlelight and
the rustle of unseen pages, you scent a presence. It

(09:02):
is neither abrupt nor startling. Actually you were expecting them.
Like a gentle breeze, arriving just before the rain, A
figure steps into view from between two tall, curving shelves.

(09:23):
He moves as though carried on the same slow current
that drifts through the library. His robe, soft and silver blue,
shimmers faintly with each step, like starlight caught in flowing water. Tall, graceful,

(09:49):
and calm, the librarian offers a smile that forms slowly,
as if it had been waiting to find the right moment.
His eyes are deep and quiet, a shade of twilight
that holds both dusk and dawn at once. When he speaks,

(10:17):
his voice is soft and low, with the rhythm of
distant waves, laughing at a moonlit shore. Welcome, he says,
not loudly, but the word settles gently into your ears.

(10:38):
You've arrived at the library between dreams. You feel no
need to speak. Your body, your breath, and your thoughts
have slowed. The librarian seems to understand this, nodding slowly

(11:00):
as if to say, yes, this is how it should be.
He continues, in a voice like a lullaby. This place
exists only in the quiet moments between waking and sleep,

(11:21):
when your body is still, and your thoughts begin to soften.
It is here that we keep the stories which are
too gentle for the day, the ones meant to calm
your mind, to rock it lightly into sleep. He steps

(11:47):
to the side, and as he does, a book begins
to float toward you, its spine glowing softly, as though
lit by the same light that shape the hallway. The
cover is pale gray, with soft silver markings that shift

(12:11):
like mist. Each dreamer who visits finds a story written
just for them, the librarian explains, folding his hands slowly
in front of him. No two books are ever the same,

(12:32):
because no two hearts are ever the same. You watch
as the book hovers in the air before you, suspended
as if it's breathing too, rising and falling with the
rhythm of rest tonight. The librarian whispers, you'll read the book,

(13:00):
Book of Stillness. The book drifts closer. You don't reach
for it, because it meets you halfway, settling lightly into
your hands. It feels warm, not hot, not heavy, just warm,

(13:25):
like sunlit fabric or a memory of something peaceful. The
moment you touch it, a quiet pulse spreads through your fingers,
like the library is saying, yes, this one is yours.

(13:46):
The librarian steps back slowly, his silhouette fading just slightly
into the softness of the room. You need not rush,
he says, his voice now more distant, more like a

(14:07):
thought than a sound. Simply follow the pages, let the
story lead you gently into rest. As you lower your
eyes to the first page, the library begins to dim,

(14:29):
not darken, but hush, like a curtain falling. The lights
flicker slowly, the pages begin to turn, though your fingers
never move. The story is beginning, and you are ready

(14:51):
to drift into it. As your fingers rest lightly on
the open pages, the edges of the book begin to shimmer.
A faint wind from somewhere inside the story brushes across

(15:11):
your face. It smells of wild flowers, soft earth, and
something even gentler, perhaps stillness itself. The world around you
begins to shift again, like a curtain falling in slow motion.

(15:35):
The library, the shelves, the flickering lights all begin to
dissolve into a soft, silvery haze, and then, without effort,
you are floating once more. You don't know if your

(15:57):
feet are touching anything, or so if you're simply being
carried as gently as a thought, drifting across the surface
of sleep. The breeze cradles you. The hush wraps around
you like a warm blanket. The sky overhead is painted

(16:23):
in deep lavender and blue, with slow moving clouds that
stretch across the horizon like brushed silk. The breeze is
warm and steady, gliding lazily through tall grass and swaying blossoms.

(16:46):
Nothing rushes here. Even the light seems to linger longer
than usual, holding onto the moment before night. If you
take a step forward, the grass beneath your feet is
plush and velvety, releasing a gentle, earthy scent with each movement.

(17:15):
The flowers, pale yellows, blues and muted pinks, sway ever
so slowly, as if dancing to a lullaby. You can
almost hear somewhere nearby a stream murmurs. Its trickle is soft, unhurried,

(17:42):
a silver ribbon weaving through a meadow. The sound of
the water blends with the breeze, the grass, the silence.
All things here speak the same language, hush, slow rest.

(18:08):
A bird glides overhead, its wings barely move, stretched wide
as it rides a current of air that seems to
carry it without need for effort. It doesn't sing, it
doesn't call, It simply moves with the rhythm of this

(18:33):
sleepy world. You begin to walk, though each step feels
less like movement and more like drifting forward. With every breath,
your body loosens with every exhil your thoughts soften further.

(18:58):
The meadow responds to you. A leaf turns gently as
you pass, A petal nods as if in greeting. Up ahead,
you see a tree unlike any you've ever known. Its
bark is smooth and silvered, and its branches curve low,

(19:24):
offering shade without shadow. You're drawn to it without thinking.
You settle beneath it, and the moment your back touches
the base of its trunk, a sound rises. It's so
soft you feel it before you hear it. The tree

(19:50):
is singing a lullaby of low resonant hums that ripple
gently through your chest. The sound wraps around you, not
just as music, but as warmth, as though the hum

(20:10):
is made of soft fabric, gently layering over your skin.
You feel the vibration settle into your bones, into the
quiet behind your eyes, into the slow rise and fall

(20:31):
of your breath. Each note moves through you like a
wave that doesn't crash, but settles over and over, steady
and slow. Your heartbeat begins to match it. Your breath

(20:54):
becomes softer, rounder deeper. The song doesn't ask you to follow,
It simply invites you to be still, and still you are.
The vibrations are comforting, as though they come from inside

(21:19):
you and outside you all at once. It sings of stillness,
of the softness between heartbeats, of rest that asks nothing
of you. You close your eyes and you stay awhile.

(21:42):
When you rise again, everything feels slower, softer. You continue
wandering through this quiet place, where the wind never startles,
and time seems to sigh. As you continue. You're slow wandering.

(22:06):
The horizon opens just a little wider, revealing a quiet alcove,
nestled beneath the outstretched arms of a willow like tree.
Beneath it sits a stone bench, worn smooth by time

(22:27):
and glowing softly with warmth. You are drawn to it gently,
as though it has been waiting just for you. When
you sit, the air feels even quieter. Hear not empty,

(22:48):
but full of silence that listens back the branches of
the trees sway ever so slightly bruh, pushing the top
of your head with a feather light touch. You close
your eyes. In the hush, you hear something deeper than sound.

(23:15):
It is a presence, but not of a person, and
it's whispering calm into your bones. No questions are asked,
no answers needed, only a sense that everything in this

(23:36):
moment is exactly as it should be. You stay there,
suspended in stillness for a time that can't be measured,
and when you finally rise to continue on the bench,

(23:57):
leaves a soft warmth behind. The warmth is not just
on your skin, but it's in your heart too. Eventually
you come upon a pond. It is as smooth as

(24:18):
glass and cradled in stone. You watch as a leaf
touches the surface. The ripple it creates expands in the
slowest circle you've ever seen. It takes minutes, long, lovely

(24:42):
minutes for the wave to complete, reaching the edge, like
a whisper finding its final word. You kneel beside it.
The water reflects the twilight sky above, and the deep

(25:02):
calm settling into your chest. It doesn't invite you to
swim or splash or move only to be, only to breathe,
only to be still, only to drift into gentle rest.

(25:29):
A rustle behind you draws your gaze. A small animal,
perhaps a fox or a hare, it's hard to tell
in the low light, pads softly through the grass. It
pauses near you, meets your gaze for a long, quiet moment,

(25:55):
then nexhales a soft sigh with no alarm or urgency.
It curls into a ball near a patch of bluebells
and promptly dozes off. More creatures begin to appear. There's

(26:16):
a slow, waddling tortoise, a tiny bird nestled into a
dandelion puff, a gentle fawn half covered in dew. None
of them speak, none of them startle. They simply greet

(26:37):
you with their presence, offer a slow blink or a
sleepy knot, and then return to the one sacred act.
This world, the one you've stepped into, was made for
resting you, unknown, a visitor here. You are part of

(27:05):
this stillness now, and as night deepens in the sky,
you feel yourself becoming quieter than you've ever been. You're
not feeling empty, but whole, held cradled by this land

(27:27):
of soft winds and slow stars, and somewhere in the distance,
the librarian's voice begins to return, but only gently, only
when you're ready. Night has fully arrived in the meadow now,

(27:51):
though it brings no darkness, only a deeper calm. Above.
The sky remains a soft shade of lavender, brushed with
the last traces of twilight. But as the final golden

(28:12):
light fades from the horizon, something unexpected begins to happen.
The stars do not gather above. They begin to bloom
beneath your feet, tiny lights. There's pale blue, soft gold,

(28:37):
and gentle rose. They all begin to flicker to life
among the grass and petals, at first just one, then another,
and then hundreds. The whole meadow glows as though the

(29:01):
ground itself is exhaling light. They don't twinkle sharply like
stars in the sky. No, these earth bound stars pulse slowly,
like the rhythm of a deep, quiet breath. Inhale, purse, exhale,

(29:31):
and rest. You feel your own body respond, almost without
realizing it. Your chest is rising and then falling with
the same gentle pace. Your limbs are sinking deeper, and

(29:55):
your thoughts become silent. It becomes stillness. A patch of
grass nearby calls softly to you. It is thick and inviting,
woven with flowering moss and dandelions that have yet to scatter.

(30:21):
You move toward it in a daze, your footsteps muffled
by the hush of the ground. When you lie down,
the earth welcomes you. It molds to your shape, supporting
every curve of your body. The grass cradles your back

(30:48):
like a well loved quilt, warmed by sun and moonlight. Overhead,
clouds drift slowly cross the sky, as if they too
are resting. A breeze passes over your skin. It is

(31:13):
barely there, but scented with rain that hasn't come yet,
with wood smoke that's only a memory, and with something unnameable,
something that feels like peace. From the tree in the distance.

(31:35):
The lullaby continues that same low, wordless song, as if
the world itself is humming you to sleep. Your eyelids
grow heavy, heavier. You close them, and it feels like

(32:00):
floating downward into softness, as though your body is being
slowly wrapped in layers of warmth and quiet. You're not
thinking anymore, You're just being just breathing, just resting, and

(32:28):
just being still. For a moment, there is nothing but stillness,
and in that stillness, something beautiful happens. It is not loud,
not grand, but it is simple and it is real.

(32:56):
You feel the weight of your limbs, yet it is
not burdensome. You feel the breath in your chest, yet
it is not something you must manage. Everything, your body,

(33:16):
your mind, and your presence simply exists. You remember vaguely
something from your waking life, a sound, a name, a
task you meant to do, but it floats away without resistance,

(33:43):
like a feather drifting on still air. It doesn't matter here.
Time doesn't press against you, It opens its hands and
lets you rest. You are neither rushing toward tomorrow nor

(34:05):
clinging to the day just passed. You are held. A
long exhale leaves your lips one you didn't know you
were holding, and the air, as if in reply, exhales back.

(34:30):
Even your thoughts slow to a near standstill. They are
not gone, but softened, like petals fallen on water. This
moment stretches long and quiet and full, and in it

(34:55):
you feel yourself return to yourself. There's a hush inside
you now it is not the absence of sound, but
the presence of peace. Your thoughts still exist, but they

(35:17):
move slowly, like leaves drifting on calm waters. You don't
reach for anything, you don't resist. You are simply here.
The rhythm of the meadow lives inside your body. Now

(35:42):
you feel it in the way your fingers rest, in
the heaviness of your limbs, in the softness of your breath.
The stars beneath your feet, the lullaby in the trees,
and the quiet of the pond, they have all left

(36:09):
their imprint. You realize you don't need to hold onto
the stillness, because the stillness is holding you. The stillness
is within you and pulling you in. Some dreams come

(36:33):
to soothe, others come to remind. This one came because
you were ready. And then gently, the librarian returns. He's
a whisper that threads itself through the air. A familiar

(36:58):
voice drifts things through the folds of your mind like
the last light of dusk. You've read what you needed
to read, his voice says, barely above a breath. The

(37:19):
story has settled into your heart, and now it's time
to return. But return feels less like leaving and more
like continuing, as if one dream is handing you softly

(37:42):
into another. You begin to rise, not by effort, and
not with muscles or will, but with stillness, as if
the meadow it's self is lifting you, carrying you gently

(38:04):
upward into the hush. The glowing meadow fades slowly, the
stars on the ground blinking goodbye one by one. The
wind becomes softer, the trees lullaby now a distant hum,

(38:31):
And then, just like before, the hallway of moonlight opens.
It is familiar, now scented again with lavender, old pages
and night air. You float through it peacefully, the path

(38:58):
carrying you back through silence and silver light. The library
between dreams comes into focus one last time, the shelves
glowing like embers, staircases drifting candlelights pulsing like slow heartbeats.

(39:28):
You glimpse at the librarian again, standing still and serene,
his slow smile unchanged. He nods as if to say,
you did well, come back any time. And then the

(39:55):
library becomes your room. The bed beneath you is real again.
You feel the soft press of your pillow, the coolness
of the sheets, the distant hum that greeted you at

(40:16):
the beginning. But you are different now, slower, quieter, Wrapped
in rest, The stillness envelops you, and just before sleep

(40:39):
claims you fully, the librarian's voice returns. It is softer
than breath, as gentle as moonlight on still water. You
are safe, you are still, You are home rest now,

(41:09):
and the last thing you feel is peace until you
return again to the library. Between dreams,

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The Library Between Dreams - A Peaceful Bedtime Story for Grownups

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