I took a road trip this summer through the Rocky Mountains to the coast, and somewhere between here and the Pacific, I found myself driving through a town that looked like it belonged in a Hallmark movie. You know the kind. Main streets lined with locally owned shops. Mountains rising on all sides. So I stopped at a little restaurant, and ordered a cinnamon bun about the size of a dinner plate. The server knew half the customers by name. And of course, like I always do when I find myself somewhere charming, I immediately thought, I could live here. And within minutes, I had this whole fantasy life for myself. I'd have a little house with a view of the mountains. I'd be a regular at the cafe. Maybe even have my own favorite table. I joined the book club, and I would definitely know everyone's dog's names. I actually pulled out my phone and started looking at real estate listings right there, to see if I could afford to live there. I couldn't. And of course, those are just fantasies. Just daydreams that last about as long as the drive to the next town. Which is exactly why I love writing stories like this one. I get to imagine walking into the local yarn shop, on a chilly October afternoon, becoming part of the weekly knitting circle. I get to create a whole world where everything is idyllic. I'm peaceful. I'm perfectly cozy. And that's where we're going tonight. To a place where the pace is slower. The air is cleaner. And the most pressing concern is whether your latest knitting project will be done before it snows. But first, make sure you're somewhere safe for sleep. Preferably in your own comfortable bed, and not driving through mountain towns, or operating any kind of machinery. Turn off the lights. Fold those blankets around you, just the way you like them. Close your eyes. And take a slow, deep breath with me. Feel that cool air filling your lungs. And then exhale slowly, letting your shoulders drop away from your ears. As you release the day's tension, let's do that once more. A nice, deep inhale through your nose. And then a longer, slower exhale through your mouth, releasing everything you don't need to carry into sleep. Perfect. Your breathing will find its own natural rhythm now. As we journey together to the mountain town of Whistlepine, where it's the first truly cold day of October, and the whole community is settling into the gentle rhythm of sweater weather. From high above, Whistlepine looks like a toy village nestled in a bowl of mountains. A single winding road cuts through the pine forest and then drops down into the valley, where the town spreads itself along the banks of a narrow creek. Smoke rises from dozens of chimneys, thin white ribbons disappearing into the crisp October air. The ski lift stands silent against the mountainsides. It's too early in the season. The slopes still showing patches of brown earth between the evergreens. The houses are scattered among the trees like wooden secrets, each one built to weather the mountain winters. Steep metal roofs designed for snow loads. Wide covered porches stacked with split firewood. Windows already glowing with warm yellow light, though it's barely four in the afternoon. The main street runs for just six blocks. Lined with everything a town of 800 needs. Murphy's Hardware with its red metal roof. The Pine Cone Cafe with mismatched chairs visible through steamed windows. Bootlegger Books with its hand-painted sign. And the Whistlepine Market, where locals stock up before the first real snow. People move differently today. Shoulders are hunched against the sudden chill. Hands tucked deeper in pockets.  Jackets that have been hanging in closets since April make their first appearance. Scarves emerge from cedar chests. The parking spaces outside the coffee shop fill up quickly with people seeking warmth and caffeine. But perhaps nowhere is busier than a small shop tucked between the hardware store and a vintage ski equipment boutique. The painted wooden sign reads Tangled Up in Blue in cheerful letters with a border of painted yarn balls. Throughout the wide front windows you can see people clustered inside. Their arms full of wool and alpaca. Their faces wearing that particular expression of someone who has just remembered that winter is coming. Inside, the shop is a symphony of texture and color. Shelves line every wall from floor to ceiling. Filled with skeins arranged by hue. Deep burgundies that match the changing aspen leaves. Forest greens, dark as pine shadows. Cream and ivory, soft as fresh snow. Baskets overflow with yarn in every weight imaginable. From delicate lace weight, mohair, to chunky wool, thick as rope. The air smells of lanolin and coffee with just a hint of the vanilla candle burning near the register. In the back room, separated from the shop by hanging strands of colored beads. Maggie's twice weekly Stitch and Sip circle has claimed their territory. Mismatched chairs form a loose circle around a low wooden table. Scarred by years of use, a coffee pot gurgles contentedly on a side table next to a plate of homemade snickerdoodles that disappear as quickly as Maggie can replenish them. A teenager with electric blue hair and a small silver nose ring sits cross-legged in an oversized armchair. Her black painted fingernails working delicately with powder blue yarn. Beside her, a woman with silver hair and kind eyes patiently demonstrates how to fix a dropped stitch. Her voice, gentle and encouraging. The girl's grandmother, perhaps, or simply someone who understands that knitting creates unexpected friendships. Near a small wood stove, a woman in expensive leather boots works methodically on what might charitably be called a scarf. She attacks each stitch with the same determination she once brought to boardroom negotiations. Her perfectly manicured nails clicking against bamboo needles. Retirement, she has discovered, requires different skills than she anticipated. But perhaps most surprising is the bear of a man folded carefully into a wooden chair that seems too small for his frame. His flannel shirt stretches across shoulders built by years of felling trees. His boots scarred by chainsaw work and mountain weather. A thick beard streaked with early gray covers half his face and his huge hands. Hands that could wrap around a tree trunk, move with surprising delicacy over a tiny sweater No bigger than a doll's dress. His daughter's first baby, due in December, and he's determined this grandchild will have something made with love. By grandpa's hands, he works without speaking, untroubled by curious glances. His focus, complete. The shop itself tells stories in wool and cotton. Shelves display yarns from around the world. Scottish wool, still smelling faintly of heather. Alpaca from Peru. Soft as clouds. Silk from China that catches the light like captured rainbows. Pattern books fan across a display table. Their page is marked with sticky notes and coffee rings. Evidence of projects planned and attempted and sometimes abandoned. In the corner, a basket holds yarn scraps available for free. Odds and ends, perfect for children's projects or practice squares. Above it, a hand-lettered sign reads, Take what you need, leave what you can. It's that kind of place where community matters more than profit margins, where the real product being sold is connection. As evening approaches, the circle begins to disperse. Projects are carefully tucked into bags. Plans are made for next week's gathering. The blue-haired teenager carefully examines her work with the older woman, their heads bent together over the stitches. The retired businesswoman frowns at her uneven stitches, but she rolls the work carefully in tissue paper anyway. The logger simply nods his goodbyes. His massive frame disappearing through the beaded curtain with its delicate bundle tucked safely in a canvas bag. Maggie moves through the shop, straightening displays, returning dropped balls of yarn to their proper baskets. The evening light streams through the windows, illuminating dust moats that dance above the organized chaos of her life's work. She runs her fingers over a skein of cashmere, soft as a whisper, and unlocks the register and counts the day's modest earnings, numbers that would horrify her accountant sister but satisfy Maggie. She turns off the lights, locks the front door, and steps into the October night. The temperature has dropped another ten degrees since afternoon. And her breath makes small puffs in the air as she walks the three blocks to the Whistlepine Inn. Through its mullioned windows, she can see the dining room, filled with locals seeking comfort food on the season's first truly cold night. The smell of pot roast and wood smoke drifts from the kitchen, mixing with the scent of pine and the distant promise of snow. Inside the inn, people linger over their meals, reluctant to leave the warmth for the sharp air outside. Conversations are quieter tonight, more intimate, as if the cold has drawn everyone closer together. The fireplace crackles in the corner. It's light flickering across faces, already showing the contentment that comes with the first evening of sweater weather. As night settles over Whistlepine, lights begin to appear in windows scattered through the forest, in houses tucked between the pines. Children are being tucked into beds, piled high with quilts. Parents read bedtime stories by lamplight, while October wind rattles the windows. Teenagers reluctantly trade their summer clothes for warmer layers, secretly pleased by the excuse to wear their favorite hoodies. The ski lift stands sentinel across the darkening sky, waiting for snow that's still weeks away, but in the houses below, people are already settling into winter's rhythm, the rhythm of longer nights and shorter days, of wood fires and warm drinks, of projects that require patience, and time, the rhythm of sweater weather, and just like the people of Whistlepine, settling into the slower, cozier rhythm of autumn. Your body is finding its own perfect rhythm for sleep. Feel how your breathing has naturally slowed, how your muscles have released their grip on the day's activities, how your thoughts are becoming softer around the edges. This is what happens when sleep begins to find you. Your brainwaves start to shift from the quiet, alert patterns of wakefulness into the longer, slower waves of drowsiness. Your heart rate settles into a gentler pace. Your body temperature drops, just slightly, signaling to every cell that it's time to rest, time to restore, time to let go of consciousness and drift into the healing darkness of sleep. Outside your window, the October night has that particular stillness. The world is settling down, preparing for the season, just as your body is settling down. You're safe here, in your warm bed, cocooned in blankets like the houses of Whistlepine are nestled among their protecting pines. Feel how perfectly your pillow cradles your head, how your mattress supports every curve of your body. The weight of your covers creates a haven of warmth and security. Your eyelids are growing so heavy now, wanting to stay closed, sealing you safely in this drowsy dream. Your thoughts are becoming less like thoughts and more like gentle dreams, soft, undefined, drifting like smoke from those chimneys scattered throughout the forest. There's nothing urgent to think about, nothing important to remember, nothing that can't wait until morning. This is the threshold of sleep, this floating feeling where your body grows heavier and lighter at the same time, where reality becomes beautifully blurred, where consciousness begins to fade. Your breathing is so slow and natural now, each exhale releasing you deeper into this peaceful state. Just like the town of Whistlepine settling into the quiet contentment of sweater weather, you're settling into the quiet contentment of approaching sleep. Feel yourself sinking deeper into this exquisite relaxation, your body knowing exactly how to let go, how to surrender to the ancient rhythm of rest and restoration. Sleep is coming now like evening coming to the mountains - gradually, naturally, inevitably. There's nothing to do but rest here in this perfect comfort, this perfect safety, and let sleep find you in its own gentle time. I'm Suzanne. This is your ticket to Snoozeville. Sleep now. Sleep deeply. Sleep well.