I wrote the first Port Haven sleep story back in February. At that time, these kinds of stories were just an idea that I was playing with. I knew that I loved reading cozy mysteries before bed. And I wondered if it would be possible to take the mystery out entirely and just write something cozy, something that would wrap around you like a soft blanket. And that's where Port Haven came from. And Eleanor, the retired teacher who writes letters to her former student, she just appeared in my imagination. And since then, we've explored all kinds of stories. But Eleanor is the only character I keep returning to. She has such a clear voice. And in my mind, she looks exactly like my first grade teacher. Mrs. Nickel, kind eyes, and a way of making everything feel safe. This is our fourth visit with Eleanor. And in her world, it is now the end of summer. That moment when summer's intensity begins to soften, when everything in nature starts to slow down and prepare for rest. The perfect season for settling into sleep. I hope this episode works so well that you fall asleep too quickly to enjoy any of it. But first, I need to make sure that you're somewhere safe. This isn't the time to be driving or doing anything that requires your attention. You really should be in bed right now. Or at least in your favorite chair. Somewhere you can truly relax. And while we're talking about things that help, could you take a moment to rate the podcast? You should see somewhere on whatever platform you're listening on. A place where you can give the show some stars. It really does help other people find these stories. And if you fall asleep before you remember to do it, don't worry. I'll remind you again next time. I'm persistent like that. Now, let's get you properly settled. Are you comfortable? Do you have everything you need? Take a moment to adjust anything that needs adjusting. There's no hurry. Just make sure you're as comfortable as possible. Take a deep breath with me now. Feel that air drawing down into your lungs. And hold it there for a few seconds before you release slowly. With that exhale, feel all the tension. Leaving your body. All the small irritations and disappointments that might have been part of your day. Any tasks that remain undone. Any conversations left unfinished. Any worries about tomorrow. Let them all release now. With each exhale, take another deep breath. And as you exhale, feel peace and relaxation. Settling into every part of your body. Continue to breathe deeply and slowly. Letting each breath carry you further into this peaceful state. Perfect. Let me share Eleanor's latest letter with you now. Written on a golden afternoon. As summer slowly gives way to autumn. Dear Sarah, I'm writing to you from my favorite spot in the sunroom. The afternoon light has that quality I've come to associate with late August. Still warm. But with an underlying whisper of change. Like a secret the season is getting ready to share. The air this morning carried the first hint of autumn's arrival. Not quite crisp, but no longer heavy with summer's drowsy heat. When I opened my bedroom window at dawn, I caught the faintest scent of wood smoke drifting from somewhere in the village. Someone had lit their first fire of the season. Perhaps just to chase away the morning's chill, Max seemed to sense the shift too. Instead of his usual mad dash into the garden, he paused on the doorstep. His whiskers twitching as he tested this new air. Daisy, ever the practical one. Simply found the patch of sunlight that streams through the kitchen window and settled there. She's discovered that the angle of the sun has changed just enough to make it a cat-sized warm spot on the floor. My garden is beginning its slow, graceful transition. The cherry trees that provided such spectacular spring blossoms are now heavy with leaves that catch the light differently. Still green, but edged with the faintest hint of gold. The lavender bushes have finished their main flowering, though a few late spikes still attract the drowsy bees. But it's the apple tree at the back of the garden that tells the real story. The branches are bending under the weight of fruit. Not quite ready, but promising. Small round promises of autumn mornings and warm kitchen afternoons. Yesterday, I noticed that the maple tree beside the garden gate, the one that provides such perfect shade for my morning tea, has begun dropping the occasional leaf. Not in distress, but in that gentle, preliminary way trees have of testing the season. I picked up one perfect leaf, still mostly green, but touched with amber at the edges and pressed it between the pages of my garden journal. It felt like capturing the very moment when summer agrees to let autumn begin. The rhythm of village life is shifting too, in ways so subtle you might miss them if you weren't paying attention. Tommy's fishing boat returns a little earlier each day, following the shortened path of the sun. The kids who spend all summer racing through the village streets on bikes now pause to collect interesting stones and shells, as if they too sense the need to gather before winter arrives. At the post office, Mrs. Patterson has begun her annual ritual of organizing the community preserve exchange. It's a tradition I'm learning about gradually, neighbors sharing their surplus gardens. Their special recipes. Yesterday, she mentioned that the Arsinoe family always contributes their famous apple butter, and that old Mr. Henderson from Lighthouse Road makes rosehip jelly that's apparently legendary. I find myself drawn into this gentle preparation without even realizing it. This morning, I spent an hour in the garden, not weeding or pruning, but just observing, noting which herbs have grown tall and fragrant, which flowers had set seed, and which corners had become havens for the small creatures preparing for winter. My beehives are a source of constant fascination these days. The bees seem to work with a different energy now, less frantic than their midsummer pace, but more purposeful. When I spoke with Mr. Hartwell, the village's unofficial bee expert, he explained that this is their time for preparation. They're creating their winter stores, reducing their numbers naturally, settling into the rhythms that will carry them through the cold months. Last evening, I experienced something I've never taken time to notice before. I was sitting in my front porch after dinner, watching the light fade over the harbor, when I realized the sky was taking longer to darken than it had just a week ago, not dramatically longer. Just enough to make the twilight feel more generous, more lingering. The fishing boats in the harbor were silhouetted against a sky that shifted from blue to lavender, to the softest rose gold. And then, just as the first stars began to appear, I saw it, the moon rising over the water, fuller and more golden than I'd seen all summer. Someone told me it was the beginning of harvest moon season, when the moon rises earlier each night, providing extra light for farmers bringing in their crops, even though Port Haven isn't farming country. That ancient rhythm seems to settle into your bones, reminding you of cycles much older than our daily concerns. I've begun a new evening ritual. After my usual tidy up of the cottage, I take a short walk through the village, not with any destination in mind, but simply to breathe the cooling air and observe the changes that each day brings. The bookshop has changed its window displays, too. Gone are the bright beach reads and garden magazines of summer, replaced by cozy mysteries and books about traditional crafts. I stood for a moment, looking at the display about preserving and canning, and I found myself genuinely interested. On my way home, I passed the church and noticed that someone has been busy in the memorial garden. The summer annuals have been replaced with ornamental kale and late blooming asters, plants that will grow more beautiful as the weather cools. A few early mums have been tucked between the established perennials. Their deep colors promising to warm the space, even as the days grow shorter. I've begun preparing the cottage for the changing season in small, satisfying ways. I've brought out the heavier quilts from the cedar chest, not because I need them yet, but because there's comfort in having them ready. The deep blue and cream quilt my sister made looks perfect folded at the foot of my bed, and the smaller throws have found homes on the living room chairs, ready for the first evening when the air carries just enough chill to make extra warmth welcome. I've also started moving some of my more tender plants, the geraniums and begonias, that have thrived on the front porch all summer. I've positioned them where they'll be protected from the first unexpected cool breeze. It's kind of like tucking children into bed a little earlier, making sure they're safe and comfortable. Before the real change arrives, the pantry is beginning to reflect the season too. I've added jars of local honey purchased from a farm just outside the village, and bags of apples from an orchard that supplies the farmer's market. The honey is particularly beautiful, amber-colored and fragrant with the mixed flowers of late summer. The cats have their own ways of acknowledging the changing seasons. Max is spending more time indoors, choosing to nap in the sunny spots that shift through the house. Daisy has claimed the kitchen window sill, watching the garden with intense focus. Yesterday, I found them both curled together in the armchair by the fireplace, not because it was cold. Maybe they sense that soon I will be the coziest spot in the house. Speaking of the fireplace, I've arranged for Tommy's brother to deliver a cord of wood next week. I won't need it for a while yet, but there's satisfaction in knowing it will be there, ready when the first truly cool evening arrives. I can already imagine the sound of the first fire crackling to life, the scent of applewood smoke, the way the flames will cast dancing shadows on the cottage walls. The evenings are becoming more precious now. Last night, I sat in the garden as dusk settled over Port Haven, listening to the sounds of the village preparing for night. Dishes clinking softly through open windows, the distant murmur of conversations, the rhythmic sound of someone sweeping their front steps, all the small rituals that mark the end of a peaceful day. As I write this letter, I can see the first hint of color in the maple leaves outside my window, not quite turning yet. But showing the faintest promise of the gold and crimson to come. There's a drowsy contentment that comes with this season that I never fully appreciated before. Autumn contentment is quieter, deeper, the satisfaction of things accomplished, of cycles completing themselves, of the natural world settling into its own rhythm. Of rest, I should close this letter now, as the afternoon light is fading earlier each day. And I want to spend a few minutes in the garden. The evening primroses won't be open for another hour, but I like to check on them. Tonight, I think I'll gather a small bouquet from the last sweet peas, and maybe a few sprigs of rosemary, to bring the scent of the garden indoors. Write soon, Sarah. Tell me about your preparations for the new school year, and how your students are settling into their autumn rhythms. I'm enclosing a pressed leaf from my maple tree, a small token of Fort Haven's gentle transition into the most beautiful season of all, with autumn's first whispers and gentle affection. Eleanor. Yes, I have finally mastered sourdough. And yesterday, I successfully made my first loaf of harvest bread, dense with seeds and grains, perfect for spreading with honey and butter on cool mornings. The starter has become like a small pet, requiring daily attention and rewarding patience with the most wonderful complex flavors. I'll save you a slice from my next loaf, as Eleanor's letter draws to a close. Let yourself settle even more deeply into your bed. Your body has carried you through another day. It has walked and worked, thought and felt, experienced all the small moments that make up your waking hours. And now, it's asking for just this, time to rest, to repair, to restore itself in the quiet darkness. Take a moment to appreciate this peaceful sanctuary you've found. Whether it's your own familiar bedroom, a cozy guest room, or simply a quiet corner where you can rest undisturbed, you are exactly where you need to be. And you are safe, you are comfortable, you are allowed to let go of everything except this gentle drift towards sleep. Notice how pleasant it is to simply breathe the quiet rhythm that requires no thought, no effort. The concerns of today have been set aside. The tasks of tomorrow belong to tomorrow. Right now, in this moment, there is nothing you need to do, nowhere you need to be, no problems you need to solve. All of that can wait. Picture yourself in Eleanor's peaceful world if it brings you comfort. The cottage wrapped in gentle evening mist, the garden settling into its own quiet rhythms, the cats curled in their favorite sleeping spots. Or simply rest in your own space, knowing that like the natural world around Eleanor's cottage, you too are part of the cycle of activity and rest.

Trust in your body's wisdom. Trust in the natural rhythm of rest that has sustained you every night of your life.

Rest now. Sleep deeply. Sleep well. Let Eleanor's peaceful world fade into your own sweet dreams, knowing that both peace and strength will be there waiting for you when you wake.