I'm always looking for ideas for these sleep stories. Most of them are just places out of my imagination. But a few have come from my own life. Like this story. I've been thinking about the places I've always slept best. And my mind went to my first apartment. Not my first apartment with roommates. I had plenty of those. But the first place that was just mine. It was in this beautiful old century home that had been converted into eight tiny apartments. The kitchen was the size of a closet. The living room had this tiny fireplace where I could fit exactly one presto log. And I asked the landlord if I could paint. And when he said yes, I painted everything white. And it felt so clean and new and mine. And I've lived in much bigger places since then. Much nicer places. But nothing has ever quite matched the way I felt in that tiny apartment. Because it wasn't about the size. It was about the peace I felt there. The sense of having my own space in the world. Those are the feelings that help us sleep. Not luxury. Not perfection. That sense of safety and peace. And being exactly where you're meant to be. So tonight, I wanted to recreate that feeling in a story. We're going to visit a young person in her first apartment. It's small. It's not fancy. But it's hers. And as we follow her, I hope you'll start to feel that same peace. That same sense of being safe in your own space. But first, our usual reminder. Please make sure you're somewhere safe to fall asleep. You want to be in your comfortable bed. And not anywhere you need to stay alert. Now, let's get comfortable. Let's help your body settle into rest. Take a slow, deep breath in. Feel that cool air expanding your chest. Bringing fresh oxygen to every cell in your body. And then exhale slowly. Letting that breath carry away any tension. Keep breathing slowly and deeply. And as you do, notice your shoulders. Is there any tension or tightness there? Feel your shoulders soften with each exhale. Your arms are becoming heavy and loose at your sides. Bring your attention to your face. Notice those tiny muscles around your eyes. The ones that work so hard all day. Focusing. Concentrating. Let them soften now. Now, feel your eyelids becoming heavier. Notice if those tiny muscles around your mouth are tight. And then let them relax. With each breath, feel your body growing heavier. Your breathing is becoming slower. More natural. Let's visit Amanda in her small apartment on the 6th floor. Where she's about to spend the most peaceful Sunday. A day that's entirely hers. Amanda opens her eyes to soft morning light. Filtering through sheer white curtains. And before she's even fully awake, she feels it. That warm bloom of happiness in her chest. This is her apartment. Hers alone. She lies still for a moment, letting the feeling wash over her. No roommate's alarm going off in the next room. No negotiating shower schedules. No tip-toeing around someone else's bad mood. Just silence. The apartment is small. A studio on the 6th floor of an old building. When she first saw the listing, she almost scrolled past. The photos made it look cramped. And the rent was at the very top of what she could afford. But something made her click through anyway. She'd been living with roommates for five years. But after five years of shared everything, shared kitchen, shared living room, shared passive-aggressive notes about dishes, she'd catch herself staying late at work. Just to have space to think. She started longing for privacy. The way some people long for travel or romance. So, she started looking. Most places were impossible. Too expensive or too far. But then she found this one. Sixth floor walk-up. 400 square feet. A kitchen the size of a closet. A bathroom barely big enough to turn around. It had good lighting. And it was in her budget. She signed the lease. And now, lying in her bed. Her bed. In her apartment. That she pays for with her own money. Amanda stretches her arms above her head. And smiles. The morning light catches on a small crystal hanging in the window. Sending tiny rainbows dancing across the white wall. Amanda watches them for a moment. Mesmerized. Simple magic. Every morning. She can see the whole apartment from her bed. The kitchen area is just steps away. The bathroom door is slightly ajar. Her clothes hang on a rack near the window. Because there's no closet. A few pieces of mismatched furniture create distinct zones in a single room. It's not much. She knows that. But she doesn't care. She just cares. That it's hers. The apartment is full of things she's collected and created. A pegboard in the kitchen where her mugs hang. Each one chosen. Including the vintage one with flowers that she found at Goodwill. Plants on the windowsill. A velvet armchair by the window that she saved for. And then dragged up six flights of stairs with her friend Jesse. Both of them laughing the whole way. Amanda pushes back the covers. A sage green duvet that makes her happy every time she looks at it. A cream wool blanket from her grandmother's house. And she sits up. She can smell something baking from another apartment. Her phone on the wooden crate nightstand tells her it's 9.47. No alarm. No obligations. Just Sunday morning in her own home. In her own place. She feels that bloom of happiness again. The kitchen is barely a kitchen. More like a kitchen suggestion. A small sink. Two electric burners. A mini fridge and about 30 inches of counter space. But Amanda has made it work. Made it charming even. String lights run along where the wall meets the counter. Currently off. But magical when lit in the evening. She fills her electric kettle and flips it on. While the water heats, she opens the mini fridge and pulls out oat milk. From the shelf beside the pegboard, she takes down her French press and a bag of coffee beans. She pours hot water over the grounds, watching them swirl. She leans against the counter and looks around. This small, imperfect, completely perfect space. The velvet armchair by the window where she reads. The 14 plants on the windowsill catching the morning light. The gallery wall of photos and prints and postcards. Each one telling a small story. She's created this and no one can take it away. Or mess it up. Or decide they don't like where she put things. She presses down the plunger on the French press slowly. Pours the coffee. She wraps both hands around the warm ceramic. And breathes in the steam. Mug in hand, Amanda curls up in the velvet armchair. Tucking her feet under her. She's still in her pajamas. There's no one here to see her. No one to judge her. From the chair, she can see out the window to the street below. A narrow view. But hers, a slice of sky. A single tree. She reaches for the book on the side table and settles in to read. For the next hour, she's lost in the story. Occasionally, sipping coffee. Completely content. When the mug is empty, she makes another cup and returns to her chair. And when she's too hungry to ignore it anymore, she bookmarks her page. In the tiny bathroom, she brushes her teeth at the pedestal sink. Looking at herself in the round mirror she found secondhand. Her hair is a mess. She looks happy. She makes scrambled eggs and toast. Eating, standing at the counter. Looking out at the street below. A person walks by with a dog. Someone jogs past. She wonders where they're going. What their Sunday looks like. Amanda gathers her laundry and heads down to the basement. Laundry room. Timing it for the Sunday lull when most people are out. She's lucky. All the machines are free. She loads her clothes. Adds detergent. Starts the cycle. And then heads back upstairs with her book. While the laundry runs, she waters her plants. Talking to them. Saying, you're doing so well. She wipes down the kitchen counter. Fix her bed properly. Smoothing the sheets. Fluffing her pillows. When the timer goes off, she transfers the wet clothes to the dryer. Sets another timer. Comes back upstairs and checks her phone. A text from her friend, Jesse. Who's confirming D&D at Amanda's this Thursday. It's the first time she's hosted the game in her own place. Four friends are coming over. She's been nervous about it. The apartment is so small. But mostly she's excited. The dryer timer goes off. She brings up the warm laundry and folds it. Puts it away. With the apartment tidy and the day stretching ahead, Amanda watches a movie on her laptop. And she reads some more. Does a few small tasks. Reorganizes the spices in her tiny cabinet. Wipes down the bathroom. Nothing urgent. The day fades slowly. Day into evening. The light changing from gold to amber. The dusky blue. By 7 p.m., Amanda is ready for the day to wind down. She makes a simple dinner. Pasta with butter and garlic. A handful of cherry tomatoes. She eats curled up on the armchair. Watching the street below as the streetlights come on. When she's done, she washes the dishes. Wipes down the counter. And looks around the apartment. Everything is in its place. Everything's quiet and peaceful. She realizes she's tired. The kind of tired that comes from doing nothing in particular. She brushes her teeth. Washes her face. Pats it dry with a white towel. In the main room, she dims the lights. Turns on just the string lights in the kitchen for a soft glow. Lights a candle on her little table. She opens the window to let the night air in. She's six floors up. And she loves that about this place. Being up high, where the city sounds drift up. But nothing can reach her. Safe. In her tower. She turns off all the lights. Except the small nightlight near the bathroom. Blows out the candle after making a wish. And climbs into bed. The sheets are cool white cotton that she washed just days ago. Still holding that clean laundry smell. She pulls the wool blanket up over herself. Feeling its familiar weight. She arranges her pillows. Two under her head. One on each side. Creating a perfect nest. Through the window, the city sounds drift up. Someone laughs. I am bright. And gone. In the distance, the siren wails. But it's far away. These sounds used to keep her awake. Back when she first moved to the city. But now. They're comforting. A breeze moves through the open window. Making the curtains sway. The air it brings. Is cool. Amanda lies on her side. One hand tucked under her pillow. The other resting on the duvet. She can feel her body starting to settle. Muscles releasing tension. Her breathing begins to slow. She thinks about Thursday. When her friends will fill this space with laughter. Through the window. The sounds of the city. Continue their soft symphony. The building itself settling. Making those old building sounds. A creak here. A click there. Pipes expanding. Or contracting. In the walls. Amanda's breathing has found its sleep rhythm now. Her whole body has surrendered to rest. No tension in her shoulders. No tightness in her neck. Through the window. If she were awake to see it. Amanda would notice a single star. Visible in the slice of sky her view allows. Just one. Bright. And steady. But she's not awake to see it. She's drifting now. She's drifting now, in that space between waking and sleeping where thoughts become untethered. Where the day's moments replay in fragments - the coffee steaming in her favorite mug, the rainbow from the crystal on her wall, the warmth of laundry fresh from the dryer. These small, perfect moments from her small, perfect day. Outside, the city continues. Cars pass. People walk home from dinners or dates or late shifts. The train rumbles on its tracks.But here, six floors up, in a small studio apartment with sheer white curtains and a gallery wall of painted frames and fourteen plants on the windowsill Amanda sleeps. Maybe your space is small like Amanda's, or maybe it's large. Maybe it's exactly what you hoped for, or maybe it's temporary, a stopping point on the way to somewhere else. But right now, in this moment, it's yours. It's keeping you safe. It's sheltering you from the world outside. Feel the walls around you. However thin or thick they are, they create a sanctuary. A place where you can let go and rest. Feel the bed beneath you. It's holding you up. Supporting every part of your body. And you have this time. Right now, these hours ahead, they belong to rest. There's nowhere you need to be. Nothing you need to do.  Take a moment to notice your body. It’s carried you to this moment. It's gotten you through every difficult day you've ever had. Your heart has been beating faithfully, without you having to think about it. Your lungs have been breathing for you. And right now, it's time to rest. Feel the heaviness in your limbs. That softness in your muscles. Your body is already letting go, already sinking into sleep. And as you do, think about the simple gifts that exist in the world. The feeling of sunshine on your skin. The smell of rain. The taste of something delicious. Clean air filling your lungs. Clean water to drink. These things we can take for granted, but they're extraordinary. And there's always hope. Even on the darkest days, even when things feel impossible, there's still hope. Tomorrow will come. The sun will rise. You'll have another chance. Another day to try. Another opportunity to feel joy, to connect with someone, to notice something beautiful. Everything you need to worry about can wait until tomorrow. Your mind wants to remind you of things - tasks, worries, fears. But they can all wait. They'll still be there tomorrow if they need to be dealt with. But right now, this time is for rest. Everything is getting quieter. The thoughts in your mind are becoming softer, more distant.Like a radio turning down. You don't need to think anymore. You don't need to figure anything out. You can just drift. Drift like a cloud across the sky. Drift into sleep the way you've done thousands of times before. Your body knows the way. Your mind knows the way. Let go of the day. Let go of your worries. Let go of your tension.  Just sleep. I’m Suzanne. This is your ticket to snoozevlle. Sleep now. Sleep deeply. Sleep well.