← Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
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- [00:01]
Eric
Hey, it's Eric. Before we begin tonight's episode, just a quick reminder. You're about to hear a few ads that help to support Listen to Sleep. If you'd rather drift off without them, you can join Listen to Sleep plus and get every episode ad free plus bonus stories and meditations. Just go to ListenToSleep.com and click on Support to learn more. Businesses that are selling through the roof like Untuck it, make selling and for shoppers buying simple with Shopify, home of the number one checkout on the planet and with Shop Pay, you can boost conversions up to 50%. Businesses that sell more sell on Shopify, upgrade your business and get the same checkout Untuck it uses. Sign up for your $1 per month trial period at shopify.com podcastfree all lowercase go to shopify.com podcastfree to upgrade your selling today. Can recruitment be beautiful? At lhh, we believe it can when it's rooted in purpose, not just process. We don't just match resumes to roles we uncover once in a lifetime talent. We understand the skills you need so we can connect you with people who align with your vision and can deliver lasting impact. Discover a more human approach to hiring. Visit LHH.com beautiful recruitment development career transition LHH a beautiful working world I finally.
- [01:29]
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- [02:23]
Eric
Hello, it's Eric here with another original bedtime story to help you relax and drift off to sleep. Tonight's story is something special, a new tale whispered into the world of Norse mythology. It's about the quiet, the that comes after the storm, the stillness between heartbeats and the kind of listening that doesn't need ears. It follows a young watch bearer named Wrynn who lives in the ruins of Asgard, long after the battles have ended, Rin is given a sacred task to listen for Heimdall's horn, which hasn't sounded in generations. But instead of sound, what they begin to hear is something even deeper. This story gently explores what it means to find peace not through action, but through presence. And maybe, just maybe, to bring a broken world a little closer together by simply being willing to hear what no one else can. Let's take a deep breath in. And out. Letting go of the day, feeling the weight of gravity pulling you deep down into the mattress. Another deep breath in and out. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to be. This is your time. Quiet time. One more deep breath in with me. And out. If you get tired while I'm reading to you, that's okay. Just let yourself drift off. The silent horn of Heimdall. Long after the great clash of gods and giants, the world grew quiet. The halls of Asgard, once bright with gold and echoing with laughter and war songs, stood silent beneath the wide gray sky. Vines crept through broken columns. Pools of still water formed where spears once struck stone. The rainbow bridge Bifrost no longer shimmered with divine light. It hung like a faint memory in the mist, a faded arc across the sky that led nowhere and everywhere in this soft post war world, a young watch bearer named Rin lived among the caretakers of what remained. Rin was not like the others. Not quite child, not quite elder, not quite warrior, not quite seer, never one to belong in the rooms with sharp edges or the circles with fixed lines. The old ones who remembered the stories before stories called Rin between born a soul braided from many threads, walking the edge where things touched but did not merge. Rin had no desire for battle. The tales of blades and beasts stirred no longing. What called instead was the hush of snow falling on broken shields, the way wind wound through abandoned halls, the subtle tilt of a crow's head just before flight. Each morning, Rin swept the temple steps, moving slowly, listening not for orders, not for praise, but for something that had never been named. One afternoon, as the sun hung low and red behind the clouds, an elder approached. Her hands were like worn bark, her eyes full of dusk. She held no scroll, no horn, only a folded piece of wool and a soft look. It's time, she said. For what? Rin asked, though the answer had already begun to bloom in the chest. To listen. The wool was wrapped around a small stone disc, smooth black and marked with a single spiral, the sign of the last task. You will walk to the End of the bridge, the elder continued, and sit where the horn once waited. But the horn. Yes, she said gently. It hasn't sounded in many lifetimes. But that doesn't make the listening any less important. So Wrynn packed a satchel with bread, a worn blanket, and a little carved figure once gifted by a wandering dreamwalker. And with the first stars rising over the quiet plains of Asgard, the Listener set out across the broken land. The land beyond the temple was vast and hushed. What had once been a road of polished stone now lay scattered in soft grasses and worn paths, shaped by time, not hands. The sky stretched wide above Rin's shoulders, pale and cloudless, like an empty scroll, waiting for the next part of the myth to be written. Rin walked with even steps, not hurried, not hesitant, each footfall a kind of listening. The satchel rested lightly at their side, and the little carved figure tapped gently with each movement, a rhythm to anchor the journey. Birds watched from twisted branches. A silver fox emerged from behind a boulder, sniffed the wind, then vanished into the tall grass, as if deciding wren was not a thing to fear or follow. The watch bearer didn't know how long the walk would be. The elder had not said, only that the horn once waited at the edge of the bridge, and that silence had become the new sound of the gods. As the sun dipped lower, Wrin paused at a ridge overlooking a shallow valley. There, stretched out beneath the violet sky, was Beefroost, or what was left of it. The colors were faded now, more suggestion than shimmer, but the ark remained a soft outline where light once danced and gods once crossed. At the very edge of that celestial span stood a single stone seat, half covered in moss, facing outward toward the stars. It was a simple place, no pillars, no guards, just sky and quiet and space to listen. Rin descended the slope slowly, taking in every detail. The way the grass grew in small spirals, the soft whistle of wind passing through a hole in an old shield lodged in the earth, the hush that seemed to deepen with each step. When they reached the seat, the world seemed to pause. Rin sat, folding the blanket beneath them, placing the spiral marked stone at their feet. The horn was not there. No great instrument rested upon the stand carved into the rock. Only an indentation remained, worn smooth by time and weather. They closed their eyes. There was no sound, not at first, but beneath the silence was something else. Not quite a voice, not quite a feeling, more like awareness, as if the air itself had been waiting, not for the horn's call, but for someone to arrive and truly hear the quiet and Rin, wrapped in dusk and listening, began to understand that this was not the absence of sound but the presence of stillness, the kind that speaks in its own way. The first night on the edge of the bridge was colder than Rin expected. They wrapped the blanket around their shoulders and leaned against the smooth curve of the stone seat. The stars above shimmered, old and knowing. Below, the valley breathed in shadows, and a thin mist began to rise and curling around rocks and roots like it had somewhere to go. The bridge itself was quieter than quiet. Its colors had faded, but it still held the faint outline of something once magnificent, a thread stretched between realms, no longer bright enough to dazzle but not quite gone, like the last note of a song still vibrating long after the voice has gone silent. Rin's breath formed small clouds in the air. They pulled the satchel close and took out a small piece of bread, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. No one had said how long this would take. No one had promised anything at all, Just the task to listen. By the second day, the wind had changed. It blew in long sighs from the north, bringing the smell of stone and distant snow. It carried with it a sound faint as memory, the rustling of something large moving far off, beyond what the eye could see. Rin sat with that sound, not trying to name it, just letting it move through the space between breaths. Time stretched. The sun rose and fell without ceremony. Clouds passed like thoughts, slow and weightless. A small bird with a golden stripe above its eyes came to sit near the stone for a while, preening in the pale light. Wrynn didn't speak. There was no need. At night, dreams came, not loud or urgent, but soft as moth wings. In one, Rin stood on a frozen lake, stars below and above their reflection, indistinguishable from the sky. In another they walked beside a great shadow with no face, just a warmth that matched their own heartbeat. The shadow didn't speak. It simply walked with them until the dream faded into the rustling of leaves and the sighing of wind. By the seventh day, Rin no longer counted the days. They had stopped expecting anything to come, and that's when the silence began to change. It wasn't a sound, not exactly, more like a shift in texture, the kind you feel in the body before the mind catches up, a deepening, as if the quiet itself was no longer empty. But watching, Rin noticed that the moss on the stone had started to turn, curling gently toward the seat, like it too was listening. A squirrel appeared one morning, gray, with white tipped ears and a knowing gaze. It perched near the edge of the bridge, chattering softly, then sat still for a long time, facing the same direction as Wren. When it left, it dropped a single acorn at Rin's feet. Rin smiled and tucked it into the satchel. Later that day, the wind carried a single feather to the stone. A small thing, iridescent, black and green. It settled into Rin's open palm, trembling as if alive. Rin held it for a long time, then placed it beside the spiral marked stone. Each small arrival felt like a part of a language. Not one of words, but of presence. And slowly Rin began to realize this was the work. Not waiting for the horn to sound again, not holding vigil for something lost, but witnessing the world as it was now. Tender, broken, alive in its silence. The horn had once called gods to battle. Maybe now the world needed something else. A different kind of listening. The days passed like mist. There were no clocks on the bridge, no rituals to mark the hours. Just the light, the wind, and the slow shifting of the sky. Wren rose with the sun when it was visible, or with the pale gray light when it wasn't. Sleep came when it was ready. Meals were simple. Dried fruits, nuts, pieces of bread soaked in dew. Hunger faded in importance. So did everything else that had once seemed so urgent. The stone seat grew familiar. Not comfortable exactly, but known. The moss that curled at its base began to grow in small spirals, following some unseen pattern. The acorn, still nestled in the satchel, grew warm at times, though never sprouted. The feather remained where Wren had placed it, unmoving, even in wind, like it had settled into purpose. Some mornings, fog rolled in thick and silver. Wren would sit with eyes closed, listening to the dense quiet. The world softened in that hush, edges blurring, thoughts dissolving. On those days, Rin felt closest to something unnamed. Not the gods, not the past, but presents beneath everything. Like the bones of the world humming just below the skin of things. They began to sense movement in the silence. Not noise, but a kind of feeling. Sometimes it would rise like a current from the ground. Other times, it came in the stillness between two heartbeats. Wren would pause, letting it pass through, never trying to catch. Wasn't a message exactly, more like companionship, a confirmation that listening was not an empty act. One night, under a waxing moon, a shadow passed across the bridge. Not a figure of flesh and bone, but of memory and shape. Tall, cloaked in the scent of rain on stone. The figure didn't speak, didn't look at Rin, just walked the edge of the bridge, then faded into the mist. Rin felt no fear, only recognition. The next morning, the stone spiral glowed faintly with warmth and the feather had turned slightly, pointing toward the seat. It was then that Rin remembered a story once told in the temple that Heimdall, the watcher of the gods, had been born of nine waves. That he had ears so sharp he could hear grass growing and eyes so clear he could see to the end of the world. And yet Heimdall had known when to rest, had once lain still at the edge of things, horn beside him, waiting not to sound it, but to honor the waiting itself. Rin felt closer to that version of the God than the stories of old battles. Time moved. Or maybe it didn't. One morning, the wind brought a scent that hadn't been present before. Juniper and frost. Then came the low, deep groan of shifting earth. Far below, Wren looked out across the valley, seeing nothing but sensing something vast moving beneath the soil. That night, they dreamed again. This time, the lake returned, still frozen, still endless. But the reflection was different. Rin stood alone at the center, wrapped in mist. And the reflection where once stars had shown was filled with faces. Not clear, not familiar, but many. Some human, some not. Some that shimmered like leaves caught in moonlight. Rin looked into those faces and felt no separation. Upon waking, tears ran freely. Not of sadness, not of joy. Just the kind that come when something inside says, yes, this is real. Later that day, a raven landed on the stone. It said nothing, just watched, then hopped forward, placed a tiny blue stone at Rin's feet and flew away. Wren picked up the stone and held it tight. It pulsed softly in the hand like it had been waiting to return. That evening, the world seemed even quieter. Not empty, full. Filled to the brim with presence, with breath, with being. Wren looked out across the edge of the bridge and whispered the only thing that came. Thank you. Not to the gods, not to the wind, just to the silence itself. And for a moment, there was a sound. Not a horn blast, not even a tone. Just the subtlest vibration in the chest, like something ancient exhaling. And with it came a knowing, clear, unmistakable. The horn would never sound again. It didn't need to. It had passed into the listening. The days that followed. The dream felt changed. Not in any outward way. The wind still moved in soft currents. The stone remained cool beneath the blanket. The raven did not return. But something subtle had shifted the silence. Once an expanse Rin had entered now felt like something that held them like water holds a leaf. Like sleep holds a tired soul. Wren rose one morning Just before dawn, the sky was lavender and silver and the stars lingered like candle smoke. They sat without thought, without effort, and watched the horizon. A faint hum, more felt than heard, rose from the earth. Not a warning, not a message. Just presence. The kind of presence that asked for nothing and gave everything. Rin remembered a conversation long ago, when the elders were still many. One of them, half blind, voice like gravel, had once asked, do you think the gods need us to believe in them? Or do you think they need us to remember how to be still? At the time, Rin hadn't understood. They had nodded politely and gone about their chores. But now that question echoed differently. It wasn't about the gods at all. It was about the listening. In that stillness, Rin saw clearly for the first time what the horn had become. Not an object, not a sound, but a way of being. The world didn't need another blast to summon armies or open gates. That time had passed. Now it needed something gentler, a kind of attention that had no agenda. A way of seeing that welcomed what was instead of reaching for what had been. The bridge had become a path not between worlds, but within them. The spiral stone warmed beneath Rin's hand. The feather glowed faintly in the dawn light, and the blue stone from the raven tucked in the satchel pulsed once, like a heartbeat. Rin stood. They gathered the blanket and the tokens. One by one, they placed them in the indentation where the horn had once rested. The items didn't vanish, they didn't glow. They just fit, as if they'd always belonged there. Then, with a slow breath and a steady step, Rin turned from the edge and began the walk back across the bridge. No one was waiting at the temple. The path was just as overgrown, just as quiet, but everything felt different. Rin had gone to listen for a sound that would never come, and in its place, had heard everything. The path back to the temple was slow, not because of weariness. Rin's body moved with ease, but because the land itself seemed to invite a softer pace. The moss felt deeper underfoot, the air warmer. Even the sky seemed closer, as though it too had drawn in, listening to every step. Birdsong returned quiet and spare. One note here, another there, not urgent, just present. When the first stone columns of the temple came into view, the afternoon sun lay across them like a shawl. The same elder who had given Rin the spiral marked stone was sitting on the temple steps, weaving reeds into a basket. She looked up as Rin approached, but didn't speak. Rin sat beside her. They Watched the wind pass through the grass for a long time. Finally, the Elder asked, did the horn sound? Wren shook their head gently. No, they said. It doesn't need to. The elder didn't nod. She didn't smile. She simply breathed in deeply, set the basket aside, and placed her hand over Rin's. The quiet between them was not empty. Later that evening, the caretakers gathered for the evening flame. Only a few remained, keepers of memory, of stories of silence. Rin was invited to speak, but offered no long tale, just a few soft words about listening, about how presence itself might be enough, about how the bridge had not ended, it had simply changed direction. Some looked confused, others thoughtful, but no one argued. In this place, in this time, there was no need for agreement, only understanding. That night, Rin slept beneath the stars. No roof, no walls, just sky and breath and a body that had listened so long it now heard even the dreams of stones. In the following days, things shifted. Not dramatically, not all at once, but slowly. The temple began to change. Less structure, more open space, rooms where silence was welcomed. Places to sit were without purpose. Visitors came. Not many, just enough. And some stayed. They didn't ask for instruction. They simply sat, walked, watched the wind. A child came once and placed a small feather in Rin's hand without saying why. An old man wept beside the spiral stone and left a carving of a bridge. Someone sang a lullaby in a language Rin didn't know. It didn't matter. The listening had become the call. And the horn, once a thing of noise and warning, had passed into the world in another form, one that did not break the silence, but honored it. Rin remained not as guardian, not as guide, just as one who stayed near the bridge and listened. And from time to time, when the sky shimmered just so and the wind curled in that certain spiral, a faint vibration would pass through the ground, soft as breath, deep as a dream. And those who were ready, not all, but some, would feel it too. They would not hear a horn. They would hear themselves. And now, as the stars rise over the bridge that spans silence and sound, you might let yourself settle even more deeply into stillness. There's nothing left to listen for tonight, only the soft rhythm of your own breath, the quiet unfolding of dreams, and the presence of a world that asks nothing of you. But to rest like Rin, you've walked a long way, and now it's enough to just be so. Close your eyes, feel the weight of the blankets, and let yourself drift into that sacred silence where even the gods come home to sleep. Good night.