We tiptoe towards sleep with books at bedtime.
Snuggled in the warm half-light of a muted bedside lamp, we walk hand-in-hand with woodland creatures in search of the Gruffalo, and fly through clear starlit skies just because there’s room on the broom.
We sing age-old nursery rhymes in hushed voices as little stars twinkle and Humpty tumbles.
Then as pages turn to the end, tired eyes blink their defiance and a weary voice pleads “just one more story”.
But words blur, eyes grow heavy, and the gentle whisper of turning pages fades as the storybook slips softly from limp fingers.

 

 

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