Speaker 1: Hello there, Welcome back to the Meditation Nest Whispered Edition.
Speaker 1: This is the last in a series of three episodes.
Speaker 1: If you want to hear more Whispered stories, make sure
Speaker 1: to connect with me on social media and share a comment.
Speaker 1: You can find the links in the show notes. Tonight,
Speaker 1: we're staying home. Just a few steps into the kitchen
Speaker 1: after everyone else has gone to bed. The room is
Speaker 1: dark except for the small light over the stove, left
Speaker 1: on out of habit more than need. It throws as
Speaker 1: offt warm glow across the counters. Nothing sharp, nothing bright
Speaker 1: enough to keep you awake. There's a drawer just to
Speaker 1: the left of the sink, the kind every kitchen has,
Speaker 1: not the silverware drawer, the other one, the one that
Speaker 1: holds everything that doesn't have another home. You slide it open,
Speaker 1: It sticks just slightly, the way it always has, and
Speaker 1: then gives away. Inside you find a tangle of things.
Speaker 1: It's not messy. It looks settled. It's the kind of
Speaker 1: tangle that's been the same for so long. It stopped
Speaker 1: looking cluttered and started looking familiar. What can we find here?
Speaker 1: I can see a ball of rubber bands wound around
Speaker 1: each other, colors faded, from red and blue down to
Speaker 1: something closer to gray or brown. You can pick it
Speaker 1: up if you want. It's lighter than it looks, soft,
Speaker 1: a little tacky under your fingers. Beside it a stack
Speaker 1: of old birthday candles, half melt down helt together with
Speaker 1: a thin rubber band of their own. Some still have
Speaker 1: a little wick left, others don't. There's a small tin.
Speaker 1: The lid is slightly bent, so it doesn't fit quite
Speaker 1: flush anymore. Inside. If you lift the lid, you'll find
Speaker 1: spare buttons, a few coins, foreign ones from a trip
Speaker 1: someone took years ago and never quite unpacked all the way.
Speaker 1: You don't need to sort through them. You can just
Speaker 1: let them sit there the way they've been sitting for years,
Speaker 1: undisturbed and unbothered. Underneath a tin, A folded paper napkin,
Speaker 1: soft with age, a phone number written on it in
Speaker 1: pen that started to fade. No name, no context, only
Speaker 1: a number, and whatever reason someone had for writing it
Speaker 1: down and never throwing it away, that's all right. It
Speaker 1: doesn't need to be solved tonight. A single double a
Speaker 1: battery rolls gently to the side as you shift the
Speaker 1: drawers contents. You're not sure if it still has a
Speaker 1: charge in it. Nobody ever is with drawer batteries. We
Speaker 1: won't test it right now. Behind everything pushed way back
Speaker 1: in the corner, a spare key on a thin loop
Speaker 1: of string. No one quite remembers what that key opens anymore.
Speaker 1: It's just there, kept the way some things are kept
Speaker 1: simply because there was never a good moment to throw
Speaker 1: them away. The stove light bombs very faintly above, barely audible,
Speaker 1: the kind of sound your ears stopped registering after a minute,
Speaker 1: and then if you listen for it again, it's still there,
Speaker 1: patient and unchanged. Outside the kitchen window, it's fully dark now.
Speaker 1: You don't hear any cars passing. Only the outline of
Speaker 1: a tree can be seen. The tree is still against
Speaker 1: a sky that's gone from blue to something closer to black.
Speaker 1: You slide the door closed, slowly, untilically back into blaze.
Speaker 1: Everything inside settles again. The rubber bands, the campbells, the tin,
Speaker 1: the key back into their familiar tangle, waiting for the
Speaker 1: next time someone needs the rubber band and remembers exactly
Speaker 1: where to look. We can stay here a while longer
Speaker 1: in the low snow flight, listening to the house go
Speaker 1: quiet around us. Your eyes are becoming heavier now, and
Speaker 1: that's okay. You don't have to keep them open. The
Speaker 1: drawer will still be there in the morning, everything in
Speaker 1: it settled exactly where it belongs. The stove flight will
Speaker 1: still faint and steady. The tree outside will still be
Speaker 1: standing still and dark. And you can rest now if
Speaker 1: you're not quite ready, that's okay. I'll stay here with
Speaker 1: you and repeat this story before I head off to
Speaker 1: bet myself. Just keep listening if you want to. Tonight,
Speaker 1: we're staying home. Just a few steps into the kitchen
Speaker 1: after everyone else has gone to bed. The room is
Speaker 1: dark except for the small light over the stove, left
Speaker 1: on out of habit more than need. It throws as
Speaker 1: offt warm glow across the counters. Nothing sharp, nothing bright
Speaker 1: enough to keep you awake. There's a drawer just to
Speaker 1: the left of the sink, the kind every kitchen has,
Speaker 1: not the silverware drawer, the other one, the one that
Speaker 1: holds everything that doesn't have another home. You slide it open.
Speaker 1: It sticks just slightly the way it always has, and
Speaker 1: then gives away. Inside you find a tangle of things.
Speaker 1: It's not messy, it looks settled. It's the kind of
Speaker 1: tangle that's been the same for so long it stopped
Speaker 1: looking cluttered and started looking familiar. What can we find here?
Speaker 1: I can see a ball of rubber bands wound around
Speaker 1: each other, colors faded from red and blue down to
Speaker 1: something closer to gray or brown. You can pick it
Speaker 1: up if you want. It's lighter than it looks, soft,
Speaker 1: a little dacky under your fingers. Beside it a stack
Speaker 1: of old birthday candles, half melted down, held together with
Speaker 1: a thin rubber band of their own. Some still have
Speaker 1: a little wick left, others don't. There's a small tin.
Speaker 1: The lid is slightly bent, so it doesn't fit white
Speaker 1: flush anymore. Inside, if you lift the lid, you'll find
Speaker 1: spare buttons, a few coins, foreign ones from a trip
Speaker 1: someone took years ago and never quite unpacked all the way.
Speaker 1: You don't need to sort through them. You can just
Speaker 1: let them sit there the way they've been sitting for years,
Speaker 1: undisturbed and unbothered. Underneath the tin, a folded paper napkin,
Speaker 1: soft with age, A phone number written on it in
Speaker 1: pen that started to fade. No name, no context, only
Speaker 1: a number, and whatever reason someone had for writing it
Speaker 1: down and never throwing it away. That's all right, It
Speaker 1: doesn't need to be solved tonight. A single double A
Speaker 1: battery rolls gently to the side as you shift the
Speaker 1: drawers contents. You're not sure if it still has a
Speaker 1: charge in it. Nobody ever is with drawer batteries. We
Speaker 1: won't test it right now. Behind everything, pushed way back
Speaker 1: in the corner, a spare key on a thin loop
Speaker 1: of string. No one quite remembers what that key opens anymore.
Speaker 1: It's just there, kept the ways some things are kept
Speaker 1: simply because there was never a good moment to throw
Speaker 1: them away. The stove light ums very faintly above you,
Speaker 1: barely audible the kind of sound your ears stopped registering
Speaker 1: after a minute, and then if you listen for it again,
Speaker 1: it's still there, patient and unchanged. Outside kitchen window, it's
Speaker 1: fully dark now. You don't hear any cars passing. Only
Speaker 1: the outline of a tree can be seen. The tree
Speaker 1: is still against a sky that's gone from blue to
Speaker 1: something closer to black. You slide the door closed, slowly
Speaker 1: until it clicks back into blaze. Everything inside settles again.
Speaker 1: The rubber bands, the gambells, the tin, the key back
Speaker 1: into their familiar tangle, waiting for the next time someone
Speaker 1: needs the rubber band and remembers the exactly where to look.
Speaker 1: We can stay here a while longer in the low
Speaker 1: snove flight, listening to the house go quiet around us.
Speaker 1: Your eyes are becoming heavier now, and that's okay. You
Speaker 1: don't have to keep them open. The drawer will still
Speaker 1: be there in the morning, everything in it settled exactly
Speaker 1: where it belongs. The snow flight will still faint and steady.
Speaker 1: The tree outside will still be standing still and dark,
Speaker 1: and you can rest now. Good night, Sleep night, Let
Speaker 1: beautiful dreams be with you tonight.