I just recently agreed to drive a friend to the airport at 3.30 in the morning. I know it was a terrible thing to agree to. But she's a really good friend, and I have trouble saying no sometimes. I'm much better at telling other people they need boundaries than I am at setting my own. But you know, I kind of loved the drive back home. The whole world feels different at that time of night. Like you're part of some secret society. Just you and a select group of people who exist in the darkness. Cars moved past me on the highway, and I would wonder who they were. Where they were going at that hour. Lights glowed in scattered windows of buildings and businesses, and I guess each one represented someone else who was awake in the night. And I realized that there's this whole subculture that exists only when the rest of us are sleeping. Or trying to sleep. That's when I had the idea for tonight's story. I wanted to capture just one tiny corner of that quiet, soothing world. The way it feels both solitary and connected at the same time. Maybe it's because the few people who are awake share something. You share something too, with every other listener right now. A need for rest. For deep sleep. And that's exactly what we're going to help you with tonight. As we visit a very quiet, very cozy, 24-hour diner. In a town so small, I haven't even given it a name. But first, as always, I need to remind you that this episode is designed to help you sleep. So please make sure you're listening from your comfortable bed, and not anywhere you need to stay alert. And if this episode helps you drift off peacefully, consider leaving a rating or a review. I would be very grateful. And if you live nearby, I might even drive you to the airport if you need it. Apparently I'm still working on that whole saying no to people thing. Now, let's get you settled. Find your most comfortable position. Go ahead, shift your pillows. Adjust your blankets. If you have a fan in your room, turn it on. Anything that helps to cool your bedroom will help with sleep. Turn off the light if you haven't yet. And pull your covers out, just the way you like them. And as you lie here in the darkness, feel your breathing beginning to slow. Focus on that breathing. Be aware of the air moving slowly in and out. Notice the imperceptible rise of your chest with each inhale. And the fall of your chest as you breathe out. Let your shoulders drop away from your ears and settle into the bed. Let your hands fall loose and open. Your body knows exactly what to do now. Your only job is to listen. The lighthouse diner sits like a warm beacon on the edge of Main Street. Its neon sign casting a gentle glow across the empty sidewalk. Through the large windows, you can see the soft yellow lights filling out into the darkness. Making the whole place look like a ship floating peacefully in the night. Inside, the air holds the comforting blend of coffee and the cinnamon buns that the diner is famous for. The black and white checkered floor gleams under the fluorescent lights. And the red vinyl booths show their age with careful patches of duct tape. Behind the counter, the server works. Her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She hums under her breath. Sometimes an old country song. Sometimes something she makes up as she goes along. Her white sneakers squeak gently across the floor as she wipes down the already clean counter. Refills the sugar dispensers and checks the coffee pot. Occasionally, she pauses to look out at the empty street. Watchful. Like she's waiting for someone in particular. The coffee pot makes that steady gurgling sound that promises warmth and comfort to anyone who might wander in. In booth three, a young man, maybe in his 20s, sits quietly with a cup of coffee and a laptop. He's wearing a college sweatshirt and faded jeans. He looks up from his laptop to smile at everyone who walks past. And he says thank you every time the server fills his coffee. He wants to be a writer. And he's already sold a few short stories. Enough to give him hope. But not enough to quit his day job. Now he's working on his first novel. A story about a small town. He prefers writing at night. When the world is quiet. And sometimes he takes breaks here at the diner. He's naturally quiet. A bit shy. But his eyes miss nothing. He sees the way steam rises from cups. How people's shoulders relax when they settle into the familiar warmth of this place. He writes with careful attention to detail. And although he doesn't know it now, he will be a successful writer one day. When he finally learns to trust his own voice. The pie case stands proudly near the register. And written labels under each pie. Apple with a golden lattice cross. Cherry with its glossy rich red filling. Coconut cream topped with soft peaks of whipped perfection. But it's the lemon meringue that truly steals the show. Towers of golden brown meringue. Swirled into delicate peaks. Beneath them the bright yellow custard that speaks of sunshine and summer mornings. Near the back of the diner. Three workers from the textile factory sit around their usual table. Sharing a plate of hash browns and talking about their shift. Their old buddies. All of them close to retirement. And their conversation flows with the easy rhythm of decades of friendship. One of them always tells the same terrible jokes. While the other two shake their heads and put up with it. Because that's what old friends do. They think they'd love retirement when it comes. But the truth is, they'll miss each other terribly. And within six months they'll start fishing together every Sunday. And still meeting here at the diner. For early morning breakfast. Behind the pass through window. The cook's movements are economical. Practice. Flipping eggs with perfect timing. Buttering toast. Keeping the grill at just the right temperature. He's been working this shift for almost two years. After some chaotic years in the city left him burnt out. The small town pace has been good for him. And he loves the night shift. For the first time in years he feels good about his life. About the direction he's heading. Steam from the dishwasher creates small clouds. And the server loads plates and cups. The water runs in a steady soothing rhythm. And she stacks everything carefully. Cups in their proper rows. Plates according to size. Silverware. Thwarted. A trucker pulls into the parking lot. His big rig coming to a stop with the hiss of air brakes. Through the window the server watches him approach. And something shifts in her expression. A brightening. He enters quietly. The server knows his order without asking. Coffee. Black. And a piece of apple pie. His name is Jimmy and he's been stopping here every Tuesday and Friday night for years. It's the highlight of both of their weeks. After he settles onto his usual stool at the counter. She notices how he sits a little straighter when she approaches. She finds herself leaning in slightly as they talk. Drawn by his stories of the road. She listens with the attention of someone who has never traveled beyond the county line. But dreams of more. She's comfortable and happy with the life she's built. But when Jimmy comes in. He sometimes wonders if change would not be so bad after all. He tells her about the places he's seen. She shares the gentle happenings of her small town. News of neighbors. Small dramas. The everyday poetry of life in a place where everyone knows everyone. As she talks, he finds himself studying her face. The way her eyes light up when she laughs. They talk for nearly an hour. And somewhere in all that conversation he almost asks her. The question sits right there. Unspoken. Would she like to ride along sometime? But something holds him back. Probably the fear of risking what they have or something that might not work. She refills his coffee cup and wonders if he might ask her something more than the usual. She catches herself hoping he will. Then wonders if she's brave enough to do the asking herself. Next time, maybe. When he finally prepares to leave, there's a reluctance. The hand he's placed on the counter lingers there. In their goodbyes, there is a possibility that hangs in the air like the scent of fresh coffee. As his taillights disappear, he's already looking forward to Friday. To seeing him again. As Jimmy's truck fades into the distance, another vehicle pulls into the lot. A smaller delivery truck with Artie's homemade bakery painted on the side. The bread delivery driver emerges. And he makes his way into the diner carrying the scent of yeast and flour. Of bread, still warm from the ovens. The server calls out a greeting. Already reaching for a fresh cup. The bakery driver settles at the counter. The factory workers look up from their conversation to nod a greeting. The regulars here are familiar with each other. Not quite friends, but companions. In this small corner of light and warmth in the darkness. This is how community forms in places like the Lighthouse Diner. When the barriers between strangers naturally fall away. The factory workers finish their hash browns and prepare to return to their shift. They gather their things with the slow pace of those who know their night is far from over. Before leaving, they each stop by the counter to say goodnight. The writer in booth three saves his work and stretches. He's filled several pages tonight. And as he packs up his laptop, the writer reflects on how places like this become the setting for a certain kind of story. Stories about connection. About the small ways people care for each other in the deep hours of the night. The cook continues his work behind the pass-through window. Preparing for the possibility of more customers. The dishwasher cycles. Steam rising and dissipating in patterns that catch the warm light. The server moves through her routines. Though her shift won't end for hours yet. She wipes tables that are already spotless. Arranges napkin dispensers that are already perfectly aligned. And she checks supplies that she knows by heart. The fluorescent lights hum. And the old building settles with small creaks and sighs. In a way, this is what the Lighthouse Diner was built for. Not just the serving of food and coffee. But the providing of sanctuary. A place where night shift workers can find community. Where insomniacs can find company. Where travelers can find a moment of rest. And warmth. The server knows that someone might still push through the door tonight. She'll be ready. With coffee and kindness. With a listening ear. And a genuine smile. Outside the night is quiet. Creating a perfect silence that amplifies the small sounds within. The clink of a spoon against a cup. The gentle whoosh of the dishwasher. A country song being hummed quietly as the tables are tidied. Rest in the warmth of the Lighthouse Diner's glow. In the steadiness of its coffee pot's song. In the gentle presence of people who choose to keep watch through the quiet hours. Let yourself settle into the rhythm of this place. Where time moves slowly. And conversations unfold without hurry. There are places all over the world like this diner. Quiet sanctuaries that exist in the deep hours of night. Places where things feel a little less lonely. A little less worrisome. Small places where time moves differently. Where the simple act of being awake doesn't feel like a burden. But rather like belonging to a community of night travelers. Maybe you're lying here in the dark right now. Feeling like the only person in the world who can't accomplish this one simple thing. Sleep. But you're not alone. Those of us who know the frustration of sleeplessness. Who count hours and minutes endlessly through the dark. Who shift from side to back to side again. Thinking maybe this position will be the magic one. We are everywhere. At this very moment there are countless yellow squares of light that dot the landscape of cities and towns. Each one representing someone just like you. Someone doing battle with their own thoughts. their own worries, their own stubborn inability to simply let go and drift away. The truth is every person you've ever met, every person you've ever admired or envied, every person who seems to have everything figured out, they have all been awake, staring at the ceiling at some point in their lives. And for everyone, without exception, sleep will come again.It always does. Not when you're chasing it, but when you've finally given up the fight and simply allowed yourself to exist. In this moment, in this bed, sleep will find you when you're not even noticing that your heart has begun to slow, when your eyelids grow heavy without your awareness, when your breathing naturally slows, when your blood pressure drops, and every muscle releases its tension. Feel how good it is to simply be here now, in this safe space. This is your refuge from a world that asks so much of you during the daytime hours. Here, in this darkness, you have nothing to prove. Nowhere to be, nothing to accomplish, except being present. Tonight's moon hangs in the dark sky, casting its silver light across the world, connecting every person. The same lunar glow that touches your windows, touches those of the lighthouse diner, touches the homes of strangers who might become friends, such as the bedrooms of people in distant countries who are sharing this exact moment with you.The universe spins around us, stars wheeling. Planets following paths laid down billions of years ago. We are part of this cosmic symphony, these grand movements of celestial bodies that continue regardless of our small human concerns.There is something comforting in this perspective that our sleeplessness, while frustrating, is just a tiny note in an infinite composition of existence. When morning comes, you awake feeling better than you expect. Even if sleep came later than you hoped, your mind and body will often compensate.Your body is resilient, adaptive. It knows how to find energy, even when sleep has been elusive. You need this rest. Your mind needs it, after all the thinking and planning and worrying it does every single day, always trying to stay ahead of everything, always working. And your body needs it too, needs those moments of complete stillness. No agenda, no timeline, no pressure to be anywhere or do anything.Just this moment of perfect permission to rest, to let your thoughts grow fuzzy and unfocused, to feel your body growing heavier and more relaxed. Let your breathing slow. Let your muscles soften without effort.Let your mind drift like a boat on still water, no longer fighting the current, but simply allowing yourself to float. Wherever the gentle streams of consciousness want to carry you, the night is vast and patient. Your bed is warm and safe.Your body knows, at the deepest level, how to find the rest it needs. Sleep will come. Until then, you are exactly where you belong, held in the embrace of night, freed, cradled by the cosmos, and connected to every other soul, seeking peace in the darkness. I'm Suzanne, and this is your ticket to Snoozeville. Sleep now. Sleep deeply.Sleep well.