Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Valentine in the Drawer

Episode Date: February 2, 2026

Our story tonight is called The Valentine in the Drawer, and it’s a story about a lost missive waiting to be found. It’s also about icicles and second hand furniture, a sunny window alcove and a coffee cup ring on a wooden desktop, hand-drawn hearts and flowers and the residual fondness of a long ago love. Subscribe to our ⁠Premium channel⁠. The first month is on us. 💙 AquaTru | Go to ⁠aquatruwater.com/nothingmuch⁠ now for 20% off your purifier using promo code NOTHINGMUCH. AquaTru even comes with a 30-day best-tasting water guarantee. We give to charity each week, usually a brand new one, but we are circling back to ⁠Adopt-a-Pet of Fenton Michigan⁠. We adopted our little Harriet from them a couple of months ago and they have an event we want to support. It’s their ⁠20th Annual Wags & Whiskers Auction Dinner Event⁠! Join Adopt A Pet Fenton Michigan on Saturday, February 21st, for a night of Mardi Gras flair, great food, live and silent auctions, and dancing—all benefiting animals in need. Get your tickets now at ⁠WagsAndWhiskersAAP.com⁠. ⁠NMH Merch, Autographed Books and More!⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠ ⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠ ⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠  Follow us on ⁠Instagram⁠ Visit ⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠ for more Village fun! Come Stay at The Inn with This Playlist! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more, Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Before we begin tonight's story, I wanted to tell you about a podcast that always makes me smile. It's called, But Why? And it's led entirely by kids. They ask the big and small questions about nature, words, even the end of the world. and the show finds the answers. There's something wonderful about hearing the world

through a child's curiosity. It reminds you how much there is to wonder about, no matter your age. If you know a young person with a question of their own, you can record it on a smartphone, just their first name, age, and town, and send it to questions at but-why-kids.org. You can find but-why, wherever you listen to podcasts.

Welcome. to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a charity each week, usually a brand new one, but we're circling back to Adopt a Pet of Fenton, Michigan.

We adopted our little Harriet from them a couple of months ago, and they have an event we want to support. It's their 20th annual Wags and Whisker's Auction Dinner event. You can join Adopt-A-Pet Fenton, Michigan on Saturday, February 21st, for a night of Marty Graff flare, great food, live, and silent auctions, and dancing. all benefiting animals in need. Get your tickets now at Wags and WhiskersaAP.com. They are linked in our show notes.

You can support what we do by subscribing to our premium feed. There are no ads, dozens of bonus and extra long episodes, and the first month is on us. Click subscribe on Apple or Spotify or join at Nothing Much Happens.com. Now, this technique works by giving your mind a place to land, a point of focus. In that way, it becomes occupied. And when your mind is occupied, your brain shifts into task positive mode, where sleep is accessible. Just like toning a muscle, we are conditioning this response, so be patient if you are new to this.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't lay awake and debate, just press play again. You'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called The Valentine in the drawer, and it's a story about a lost missive waiting to be found. It's also about icicles and second-hand furniture, a sunny window alcove, and a coffee cup ring on a wooden desktop, hand-drawn hearts and flowers,

and the residual fondness of a long-ago love. Did you know that nearly three out of four U.S. homes have toxic chemicals in their tap water? Even when water looks clear and tastes fine, it can still contain things we don't want in our bodies. Things like chlorine, lead, and so-called forever chemicals. Over time, exposure to contaminants like these has been linked to fatigue, hormone disruption, cognitive issues, and more. What surprised me most is that standard fridge and pitcher filters don't remove any of these contaminants. And bottled water isn't the solution either.

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water guarantee or your money back. That's aquatrue.com, a-Q-U-A-Q-U-A-T-R-U-com. Promocode nothing much. Take the guesswork out of truly purified, great tasting water. So lights out, friends, devices down, get the right pillow in the right spot, and let everything relax. The day is done. Whatever happened is what happened. And now we are here. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Again, breathe in and out. Good. The Valentine in the drawer, part one. In the paper this morning, it said that we'd already gained 38 minutes of daylight since the first day of the year. I lifted my teacup to the news and leaned back in my chair at the breakfast table, thinking about those

extra moments in the morning and evening. It hadn't been too noticeable to me, coming in tiny increments as it does. But reading it in confident black and white had convinced me that spring wasn't too far off. We still had a blanket of snow on the ground. And I didn't expect that to change for several weeks. but the bitter cold of early January had softened into a more measured chill that could at least be bundled up against for long walks.

The icicles hanging from the eve above my kitchen window were long and thin from melting, dripping, and refreezing. And I thought of how satisfying it might be to stand out there with the rake. and scrape them off in a long, clean line. That might be a good task for later, I thought. First, I had a little chore today that I was looking forward to. At the second hand store downtown, I'd found a sweet little writing desk that had miraculously fit in the hatchback of my car

and was now sitting in the alcove on the upstairs. landing. A space where I'd never really been able to put anything before, at least not anything that seemed right. It's a pretty spot. An extra pocket of space framed with windows. And when we'd first moved in, before we'd painted, there had been sun-fated spots on the walls beside it, where pictures had hung. Often, when I walk through the hall, I pause there. It's somewhere I wanted to spend time, but it's been too small for everything I've tried, too big to sit empty.

And when I spotted the desk beside a chiffonier, topped with an aspedistra, in a patinated bronze pot, I quietly, put legitimately gas. It was just the right size, and I could immediately imagine it as a place to set out some pretty books. The fountain pen and inkwell I'd inherited from Dad, and the glass blue bird of happiness I'd gotten on the second night of Hanukkah, and now it was up in the alcove, waiting to be dusted and polished,

and styled and admired. I'd already set out the piano stool, though we had no piano for it to go with. It was the kind you could adjust by winding the seat one way or another, and was the perfect size for the desk, so when my breakfast dishes were on the drainboard, and my hair up in a clip on the top of my head,

I carried my cleaning caddy up the stairs. The windows in the alcove weren't curtained, and pale sunlight was already streaming in over the surface of the desk. I took a moment to notice the nicks and dark spots in the stain, wondering when it had been bumped into, and with what and by whom, and if they'd sworn under their breath, and run their fingers back and forth over the dent,

as if they could rub it out, I would have. There was a very light coffee cup stain in the top left corner, and I thought that might mean that the person who'd set their slightly damp cup there, at least years, but possibly decades ago, was left-handed. I dusted it thoroughly, and used a wood polish to hydrate the wood and bring back its rich cordovan color. It had a single drawer, wide but only a couple of inches deep, right at the center of the writing surface, and tucked a little beneath the top.

It was probably meant to only hold pens and stationary. envelopes and a few stamps. And since it sit a bit behind the top's edge, I hadn't noticed at the shop that it didn't quite close all the way, only when I was dusting the inside of the drawer and tried to push it back into place. Did I see that it didn't sit flush with its frame?

I pulled it out and pushed it back in a time or two, and heard a very faint rustling sound as I did. Was something caught in the track? I got down under the desk and looked as closely as I could in the lesser light. The track seemed clean. I ran my cloth over them to clear any dust out of the grooves. Still, the drawer didn't sit flush.

I pushed it open and pulled it back, in again, and the small corner of an envelope appeared, wedged between the back of the drawer and the underside of the desk. My eyes went wide, and I had to settle my breath before I reached for it. A hidden letter? In a second-hand desk? Could I be so lucky? I pinched the paper between my fingertips and carefully wiggled it back and forth, anxious not to tear it, but it came away more easily than I expected. It was a thin rectangle of paper that had probably been creamy white when it was calendared, but now was yellowed, with a smear of ink across its back. I tried to make out the name, but all I could confidently see was a capital L, followed by a few squiggly letters.

It did have an address and a stamp, but time had faded and smudged them. I crawled out from under the desk and stepped into the light of the windows. My heart was beating with a new force as I turned it over and eased the flap open. It looked like it had been sealed at one point, but the glue had long since dried out and lost its grip. Inside was one folded sheet. I sat down on the piano stool and paused to smell the paper. Behind the dust and that nostalgic scent of wood pulp slowly degrading. There was just a whiff of roses. I unfolded the letter and saw right away that it was decorated

with small hand-drawn hearts and cupids around the edges, little imperfect sketches of flowers on a vine and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. This wasn't just a letter. This was a Valentine. I pressed me. my lips together, and felt my eyes welling slightly, astonished that I got to hold such a treasure

in my hands. Inside, it wasn't addressed to anyone. I felt sure it didn't need to be. The giver and receiver of this message knew very well who they were. Lines of verse in pretty looping cursive crossed the page, and I'd need to dab my eyes before I could make them out. But at the bottom, in a curling swash of ink, was a large letter M. Who was L? Who was M? How did this Valentine come to be stuck in this desk drawer? I looked out the window, drawing out the moment before reading the poem one had written to the other, knowing that when I was done, I wouldn't show it to anyone, but instead, tuck it safely back where I had found it, and close the drawer on their love. The Valentine in the drawer, Part 1. In the Paper This Morning

It said that we'd already gained 38 minutes of daylight since the first day of the year. I lifted my teacup to the news and leaned back in my chair at the breakfast table, thinking about those extra moments in the morning, an evening. It hadn't been too noticeable to me, coming in tiny increments as it does, but reading it in confident black and white, had convinced me that spring wasn't too far off. We still had a blanket of snow on the ground, and I didn't expect that to change for several weeks,

but the bitter cold of early January had softened into a more measured chill that could at least be bundled up against for long walks. The icicles hanging from the eve above my kitchen window

were long and thin from melting, dripping, and refraising. And I thought of how satisfying it might be to stand out there with the rake and scrape them off

in a long, clean line. Well, that might be a good task for later, I thought. First, I had a chore today that I was looking forward to. At the second-hand store, downtown, I'd found a sweet little writing desk that had miraculously fit in the hatchback of my car

and was now sitting in the alcove on the upstairs landing, a space where I'd never really been able to put anything before, or at least not anything that seemed right. It's a pretty spot. An extra pocket of space. Framed with windows. And when we'd first moved in, before we'd painted,

there had been sun-fated spots on the walls, beside it, where pictures had hung. Often when I walk through the hall, I pause there. It's somewhere I wanted to spend time, but it's been too small for everything I've tried and too big to sit empty. So when I spotted the desk, beside a chiffonier, topped with an aspedistra in a patinated bronze pot, I quietly, but legitimately, gasped. It was just the right size, and I could immediately imagine it as a place to set out some pretty books. The fountain pen, an inkwell, I'd inherited from Dad, and the glass bluebird of happiness. I'd gotten on the second night of Hanukkah, and now it was up in the alcove. waiting to be dusted and polished and styled and admired.

I'd already set out the piano stool that we had, though we had no piano for it to go with. It was the kind that you could adjust by winding the seat one way or another. and was the perfect size for the desk. So when my breakfast dishes were on the drainboard, and my hair in a clip on the top of my head, I carried my cleaning caddy up the stairs. The windows in the alcove aren't curtained,

and pale sunlight was already streaming in. over the surface of the desk. It took a moment to notice the nicks and dark spots in the stain. I wondered when it had been bumped into. And with what? And by whom? And if they'd sworn under their breath and run their fingers back and forth over the dent,

as if they could rub it out, I would have. There was a very light coffee cup stain in the top left corner, and I thought it might mean that the person who'd set their slightly damp cup there, at least years,

but possibly decades ago, was left-handed. I dusted it thoroughly, then used a wood polish to hydrate the wood and bring back its rich cordovan color. It had a single drawer, wide, but only a couple of inches deep, right at the center of the writing surface, and tucked a little beneath the top. It was meant probably to only hold pens and stationary, envelopes and a few stamps, and since it sat a bit behind the top's edge, I hadn't noticed at the shop

that it didn't quite close all the way, only when I was dusting the inside of the inside of the shop. drawer and tried to push it back into place, did I see that it didn't sit flush with its frame. I pulled it out and pushed it back in a time or two and heard a very faint rustling sound as I did. Was something caught in the track? I got down under the desk and looked as closely as I could

in the lesser light. The tracks seemed clean and I ran my cloth over them to clear any dust out of the grooves. Still, the drawer didn't sit flush. I pushed it open and pulled it back in again, and the small corner of an envelope appeared,

wedged between the back of the drawer and the underside of the desktop. My eyes went wide, and I had to settle my breath before I reached for it. A hidden letter? In a second-hand desk? Could I be so lucky? I pinched the paper

between my fingertips and carefully wiggled it back and forth, anxious, not to tear it, but it came away more easily than I expected. It was a thin rectangle of paper that had probably been creamy white when it was calendared, but was now yellowed, with a smear of ink across its back. I tried to make out the name, but all I could confidently see was a capital L, followed by a few squiggly letters. It did have an address and a stamp, but time had faded and smudged them.

I crawled out from under the desk and stepped into the light of the window. My heart was beating with a new force as I turned it over and eased the flap open. It looked like it had been sealed at one point, but the glue had long since dried out and lost its grip. Inside was one folded sheet. I sat down on the piano stool and paused to smell the paper behind the dust and the nostalgic scent of woodpulp, slowly degrading. There was just a whiff of roses. I unfolded the letter and saw right away

that it was decorated with small hand-drawn hearts and cupids around the edges, little imperfect sketches of flowers on a vine and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. This wasn't just a letter. This was a Valentine. I pressed my lips together. and felt my eyes welling slightly, astonished, that I got to hold such a treasure in my hands. It wasn't addressed to anyone. I felt sure it didn't need to be. The giver and receiver of this message

knew very well who they were. lines of verse, and pretty looping cursive crossed the page. And I'd need to dab my eyes before I could make them out. But at the bottom, in a curling swash of ink, was a large letter M. Who was L? Who was M? How did this Valentine come to be stuck? in this desk drawer. I looked out the window, drawing out the moment.

Before reading the poem, one had written to the other, knowing that when I was done, I wouldn't show it to anyone, but instead, tuck it safely back where I had found it and close the drawer on their love.

Sweet dreams. Thank you.