So we just had our first real snowfall where I live. It started in the morning, just a few flakes at first. But it was still snowing when I went to bed that night. I love how everything looks when the snow is fresh and white. I like how it muffles sound, the way everything becomes so still. And quiet. And there's something magical about waking up in the middle of the night and seeing that it's still snowing. Making the world softer and gentler. But then morning came and I had to shovel the driveway. I don't love that so much. If you live somewhere warm right now, I hope you appreciate not needing snow shovels. But in spite of that, there's something deeply peaceful about falling asleep while snow is falling. Knowing that everything is being made, white and still. And that feeling inspired tonight's sleep story. Tonight we're going to take shelter from a winter storm at a beautiful old inn in Vermont. This story is designed to fill your mind with peaceful, comforting images. So there's no room left for worries or racing thoughts. Just warmth, safety, and the simple pleasure of being exactly where you need to be on a winter night. But first, make sure you're somewhere safe for sleep. There's a full disclaimer in our show notes. And if you enjoy this episode, consider leaving a rating or a review. It helps the show reach other people who may need help sleeping too. And it helps me know that I'm not just talking to myself about imaginary inns. In Vermont. Now, let's help your body begin to relax. Settle yourself into your bed. Adjust your pillows and get everything just the way you like it. Take a slow breath in and hold it for just a moment. And then release that breath, letting go of any tension you've been holding. Let's do that once more. A deep breath in. Feeling your chest and your belly expand and then release it. Letting your shoulders drop. Letting your body get heavier. Feel the weight of your head on your pillow. And notice how your arms and your legs are becoming heavier, more relaxed. Your jaw might be clenched. So go ahead and let it relax. Let all that tension melt away. And for the next little while, all you need to do is listen. And let yourself drift wherever the story takes you. We're going on a journey now to a snowy evening in Vermont. To the Snowdrift Inn. Where you'll find everything you need for the most peaceful night's sleep. You've been driving for hours. The storm wasn't supposed to be this bad. But weather in Vermont has its own mind. And what started as light flurries this afternoon has become something else entirely. The windshield wipers work frantically. The road ahead is barely visible. Just a tunnel of white in your headlights. And then you see it. A small wooden sign, hand-painted, appearing through the snow. The Snowdrift Inn. Vacancy. You take the turn carefully. Your tires crunching on the snow-covered drive. The lane winds upward through tall evergreens. Their branches heavy and bent under the weight of fresh snow. Around the final curve, the inn appears. It's a white clopboard building. Three stories tall. Every window glowing with warm yellow light. Smoke rises from two chimneys. A wide porch wraps around the front. And even from here, you can see the glow of the fire inside through the windows. You pull into the small parking area and turn off the engine. For a moment, you just sit there, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to release. You made it. You're safe. The cold hits you the moment you open the car door. Your boots sink several inches into fresh snow with a satisfying crunch. Snowflakes land on your face. Melting instantly against your warm skin. And you can feel them catching on your hair. On your eyelashes, the porch steps have been recently shoveled. The front door is painted a deep brownberry red with a wreath of fresh pine and red berries. Before you can knock, the door opens. A woman in her 60s smiles at you. Come in, she says, stepping back to let you enter. You step inside and the warmth envelops you. You can smell wood smoke and something baking. Bread or cookies. I'm Maggie, the woman says, closing the door behind you. Let's get you checked in. She leads you up a staircase. And you pause at the landing. There's a window looking out at the storm. And for a moment, you both stand there. Watching the snow swirl past the glass. Now that you're safe inside. It's beautiful. Hypnotic, even. The way the flakes dance and spin. You've got the blue room, Maggie says. Continuing down the hallway. The room is painted a soft, dusty blue. A four-poster bed dominates the space. Piled high with quilts and shades of cream and soft gray. A bedside table holds a brass lamp with a fabric shade that casts warm, gentle light. But it's the fireplace that catches your attention first. A small fire is already burning there. The mantle above holds a few pinecones and a small vase with evergreen sprigs. She sets a key on the dresser and leaves you alone. Closing the door softly behind her. You set your bag down and move to the window. It's a large window with wavy antique glass. And through it, you can see the storm continuing. The snow falling thick and fast. But you're warm. You're safe. The bathroom door is slightly ajar. And you push it open. The bathroom is small. But perfect. White beadboard walls. Black and white tile on the floor. And there, standing on brass feet, is an enormous clawfoot tub. The kind you can actually stretch out in. But the best part is the skylight directly above the tub. Through the glass, you can see snow falling. The flakes tumbling down through the darkening sky. You turn on the tap. And hot water comes rushing out, filling the room with steam. And while the tub fills, you go back to your bag and pull out fresh clothes for dinner. A soft flannel shirt in deep green that you packed at the last minute. Your favorite sweater. The gray one. That's so soft. It's like wearing a cloud. Back in the bathroom. The tub is almost full. You pour in some of the scented bath oil. And the room fills with that calming scent. You undress and step into the hot water. Slowly lowering yourself in. The heat is almost shocking at first. But then your body adjusts. And it's perfect. You lean back, letting your head rest. And you look up through the skylight. The snow is still falling. The flakes drifting down through the gray blue evening sky. From this angle, it's like being inside a snow globe. Peaceful. Hypnotic. Beautiful. The old radiator in the corner of the bathroom clanks softly, sending up waves of warmth. Your muscles, which have been tense for hours, begin to release. You can feel the knots in your shoulders start to loosen. Your breathing slows. You stay in the bath until the water starts to cool. And even then, you're reluctant to get out. But eventually you do. Wrapping yourself in a thick white towel. In the bedroom, you pull on a pair of clean jeans. Broken in. Uncomfortable. The flannel shirt is soft against your skin. When you pull the gray sweater over it, you feel cocooned in softness. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror above the dresser. You look different. Relaxed. Like someone on vacation. Someone without a care in the world. The stairs creak softly under your feet. As you descend, you can hear voices now. Low conversation. Someone laughing softly. The dining room is large, with a long farmhouse table that could easily seat twelve. Tonight, there are eight place settings, each one with mismatched china. Floured plates. Solid colored bowls. Mason jars filled with pine branches, and red berries serve as centerpieces. Several other guests are already taking their seats. An older couple moves slowly to chairs near the head of the table. The man pulling out his wife's chair for her. A younger couple guides two small children to seats on the other side of the table. The little girl is wearing a red dress, and she can't stop looking at the candles with wide eyes. Her younger brother fidgets, until his father gently places a hand on his shoulder. And he settles, across from you. A man sits alone. Already opening his napkin onto his lap. He's perhaps in his early fifties. With gray streaked dark hair, and an interesting face. Like someone who spends a lot of time thinking. There's a book peeking out of his sweater pocket, at the far end of the table. Another couple sits together. They're dressed more formally, and seem slightly uncomfortable at first. Looking around at the mismatched dishes, and casual atmosphere. But then Maggie brings out a basket of fresh bread. And the smell of it softens their faces. Maggie lights the candles down the center of the table. And the room takes on a golden glow. Her husband begins bringing out serving dishes. A roasted chicken, and roasted root vegetables. A green salad with sliced pears, and candied walnuts. Mashed potatoes with butter, melting on top. The food is passed around the table. And conversation starts to flow. Nothing forced. Just easy talk about the storm. About where people were headed, before they stopped here. The man with the book in his pocket, tells a story about getting caught in a snowstorm in Scotland once. The well-dressed woman surprises everyone by laughing at the punchline. And her husband adds his own story. About a business trip gone wrong in a snowstorm in Chicago. Soon, everyone is sharing stories. The conversation weaving around the table. Like the candlelight. After dinner, everyone drifts into the parlor. The fire has been built up again. And the room is perfectly warm. You settle into a comfortable spot. With a view of both the fire, and the windows. Where you can watch the snow still falling. Maggie brings in a tray with coffee, and tea. And then another tray of small cookies. Shortbread, and ginger snaps. The kids are now sprawled on the rug near the fireplace. Playing with a set of wooden block. You notice the bookshelves, and stand up to look. You pull out an old Agatha Christie paperback. With a cracked spine, and yellowed pages. Perfect. You return to your seat, and curl up with the book. Pulling a warm wool blanket from a basket over your legs. You begin to read. But, you find yourself looking up every few minutes. Watching the fire. Watching the snow. Watching the other people in the room. The older couple is playing cards. At a small table by the window. Chin rummy, it looks like. They play in comfortable silence. Each knowing the other's tales. The younger couple has claimed one end of the sofa. She's tucked her feet under her. Leaning against her husband's shoulder. He has his arms around her. And they're both just watching their children play. Not talking. Just being together. The well-dressed couple is sharing another sofa. At some point, he's taken off his expensive cardigan. And rolled up his sleeves. And they're playing Scrabble. On a board balanced between them. The storm continues. Snow piling up the windowsills. But from inside, it just looks beautiful. The windows rattle occasionally. When a gust of wind hits them. But it only makes the warmth inside feel more precious. The fire pops. And crackles. Sending occasional sparks up the chimney. You return to your book. But the words start to blur together. Your eyelids are growing heavy. The warmth of the fire. The way. Of the blanket. The soft murmur of voices around you. It's all combining to make you feel wonderfully drowsy. You let your eyes close for just a moment, just to rest them. But when you open them again, the room has become quieter. The children have been taken to bed.The older couple is still playing cards, but more slowly now. The man with the book has returned to reading, his head nodding occasionally. The well-dressed couple has finished their Scrabble game. She won, apparently. Judging by the satisfied smile on her face, you mark your place in the book and set it on the side table. You can finish it tomorrow, maybe. If the snow keeps you here another day, you quietly say good night to those still awake. They murmur good night back, voices soft and warm. The stairs creak under your feet as you climb back up to the second floor.You unlock your door with the old-fashioned key and step into your room. The fire has died down to glowing embers. But someone, Maggie probably, has been in while you were downstairs.The bed has been turned down. The lamp is on its lowest setting, casting just enough light to see by. You move to the window and look out at the storm. The wind has died down. The world outside looks muffled and soft, everything covered in white. You can see the dark shape of the trees, their branches heavy with snow.Beyond them, the woods stretch away into darkness. Somewhere out there, the creek runs under a layer of ice. The covered bridge stands silent, and the little village is tucked in for the night. Smoke rising from chimneys into the dark sky. You change into soft pajama pants and an old t-shirt. The most comfortable things you own.You add one more small log to the fire and watch as it catches. The room fills with the scent of burning wood, that perfect winter smell. And then you climb into bed.The sheets are cool and crisp. The quilts are heavy without being too heavy. They're way perfect and comforting. You sink into the mattress, and it feels like being held. You pull the quilts up to your chin and lie there, watching the firelight dance on the ceiling. You can hear the old house settling around you.You think about tomorrow. Maybe the roads will be clear and you'll continue your journey. Or maybe the snow won't be cleared yet.Maybe you'll get to stay another day. Another night by the fire. Another dinner at the long table.Another evening of peace and warmth. And the gentle company of other people seeking shelter from the storm. Either way is fine. You're safe here. You're comfortable. Everything you need is here at this moment. A soft bed. A warm room. A peaceful heart.The whole inn sleeps now. Every room occupied by peaceful, resting people. Some snore softly.Some dream. But all of them are warm. Content. Outside. The storm is past. The snow has stopped falling.The woods around the inn are utterly silent. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of peace. The deep muffled quiet of a world covered in snow.The trees stand dark and still. The deer are bedded down in the thickets. The rabbits safe in their burrows.The birds tucked into hollow trees with their heads under their wings. The stars are out now. They're impossibly bright. Boy stars only get in winter. On clear nights. Far from city lights.The moon waning now. Casts everything in silver light. The snow reflects it all back.Making the whole world glow. It's December in Vermont. It's deep winter and the world is sleeping. Your breathing has found its own drowsy rhythm now. Slow and steady. Each breath in brings peace.Each breath out releases everything you don't need to carry into sleep. Your heart beats steadily in your chest. Strong and reliable.Your body is so relaxed now. Feel how your muscles have let go. Your hands lie open.This is what comfort feels like. This simple thing. A warm bed.A safe room. A quiet night. No demands on you.No one needing anything. Just rest. Just peace.Just this moment of perfect stillness. Notice how good it feels to be warm when it's cold outside. Notice the weight of the blankets on your body. That comforting pressure. That sense of being held. Notice how your pillow cradles your head perfectly.Supporting you. Your eyelids are so heavy now. So perfectly heavy.They want to stay closed. Let them stay closed. Let them rest.Your thoughts are becoming softer around the edges. Less like thoughts and more like dreams. Gentle images drifting through your mind. The fire crackling. The snow falling. The warm light in the windows.The faces of strangers who became for one evening. Like family. And sleep is here now.Right here with you. You can feel it at the edges of your consciousness. Gentle and welcoming.Ready to carry you away into dreams. Let yourself drift. Let yourself fall into that soft, dark, peaceful place. Where nothing matters except rest. You are safe. You are warm.You are exactly where you need to be. I'm Suzanne, and this is your ticket to Snoozeville. Sleep now.Sleep deeply. Sleep well.