**No Normals Here**
Tia stepped off the boat—the wood still sticky with tar and reeking of river mud—and knew at once she wouldn’t go back. The air here was different: damp, thick with pine and moss, fish and something else. Like life itself, pure and unfiltered.
«Welcome,» said the guide, a bloke in a fishing vest. «This is the ‘Living Waters’ camp. Pitch your tent wherever. Loo’s over there. Fancy work? Meet us at the shore by eight. We’re clearing rubbish.»
She nodded. «Work» didn’t scare her. Silence did. For the first time in months, no one asked, *How are you? Are you coping? Will you teach again?* No pitying looks.
She set her tent on a rise near the water, sat on a log, kicked off her boots, and dipped her feet into the icy river. For the first time in ages—she didn’t cry.
Two weeks passed. Tia hauled buckets, dug trenches, scrubbed pots. Her hands were scratched, her back ached, but her mind was quiet. The camp was full of oddballs—students, biologists, ex-tech workers, artists, volunteers from all over. All a bit lost.
«Who were you?» asked Esme one evening, a girl with ginger dreads and a voice like an oboe.
«Art history lecturer. Uni in York.»
«Why’d you leave?»
«My son drowned. A year ago. I… ran out of words.»
Esme didn’t gasp or fuss. Just nodded. «My dad. Cancer. Died last December. Came here after. Otherwise, I’d have cracked.»
«People don’t crack here?»
«You can. But it’s safe to.»
Tia smiled for the first time.
She started sketching—on old sack paper. The river, birds, faces by the fire. Sometimes her son, grinning in a fishing vest, holding an oar.
One day, someone strung her drawings on a washing line. By evening, others added photos, poems, carvings.
«Self-expression day!» bellowed Andy, the shaggy-haired coordinator. «Show us who you were, are, or wanna be!»
«And you?» Tia asked.
«Was in marketing. Now I’m the bloke with the axe. Prefer it.»
They laughed, unashamed of their scars.
Then trouble came—not from the woods, but the city. Her mum and sister arrived by boat, crisp in windbreakers, faces pinched with disapproval.
«Theodora! Have you lost it?» Her mum gaped at the camp. «These people are savages! Is this even legal?»
Veronica sniffed, hunting for someone to complain to. «We were worried sick! You vanish like some runaway teen—you’re nearly forty! A *lecturer*!»
Tia said nothing. The camp stilled. Esme touched her shoulder. «Need backup?»
«No. I’ve got this.»
«We’re horrified,» Mum pressed. «Sleeping in a tent? Fetching water? Mingling with strangers?»
«They’re not strangers. *You* stopped hearing me.»
Veronica cut in, «We’re family!»
«Where were you when I couldn’t get out of bed? When I wished it’d been me?»
«We *tried*—»
«Saying ‘be strong’ isn’t help. It’s an excuse to stay away.»
Silence. Just the river murmuring agreement.
Andy offered tea. Mum recoiled. «Who’s this? Brainwashing you?»
«He’s not afraid of my pain. And I’m not brainwashed—I’m *alive*.»
«You’re mad,» Veronica whispered.
«Maybe. But it’s my choice.»
They left the next morning, no goodbyes. Tia sat on the dock, barefoot, gripping a jar of honey. Esme joined her.
«You alright?»
«Like a tree ripped up—only to grow new roots.»
«Brilliant. *Lecturer*.»
«Yeah. Just life, now.»
By September, most had left. Andy stayed, building a winter cabin, chopping logs for the stove.
One dusk by the river, Tia admitted, «Think I’ve fallen in love. Not with you. With… myself, here.»
Andy chuckled. «That’s the bit that matters. Rest follows.»
She took his hand. «What if I stay?»
«Then stay.»
«What if I build a workshop? Invite others who’ve lost themselves?»
«Then I’ll build you a porch. So they know they’re wanted.»
She knew the river remembered. The forest healed. And even a shattered heart could sing again—if you listened.
Winter was long and hushed. Frost glazed the trees; the river iced over, chiming under dawn light. Five remained—Andy, Tia, Esme, and a photographer couple, Stu and Vicky, «hiding from the city.»
Tia moved into a hut by the workshop—stove, rough shelves, golden lamplight. She rose early, made sea-buckthorn tea, watched foxes dart over frozen water.
On the wall, a map of the UK sprouted pins where letters came from:
*»Can I visit? Musician. Sick of stages.»*
*»Artist post-divorce. Need quiet.»*
*»I’m 18 and lost. Can I just… be?»*
Andy eyed the map. «We’ll need more cabins. You feel them. Means *you* lead.»
Spring crept in—drips, creaking snow, thawed moss. First guests: Martha (a burnt-out writer from Edinburgh), Anton (an ex-architect), and young Annie, sketching everything.
«This place is an exhale,» Martha said by the fire. «I forgot how to just *be*.»
«That’s all you need here,» Tia said.
Soon, the camp thrummed. Some made paint from bark; some wrote songs; some slept twelve hours, relearning quiet.
Andy built a second cabin, then a third. Guests helped or washed up or read aloud at bedtime. No masks. Just breathing together.
One evening, a woman in a trench coat arrived. «Dr. Alice. Clinical psychologist. Colleagues said this place… interesting.»
Tia smiled. «Simple here. That frightens people.»
«Frightens. And heals,» Alice admitted, finally smiling too.
She stayed two weeks, holding quiet talks. Before leaving, she told Tia, «I spent years teaching others to live. You *did* it. That’s worth more than degrees.»
Then Veronica’s email came:
*»Thought you were running. Now I see—you saved yourself. Can I visit? No lectures. Just… see you.»*
Tia replied: *»Come. But bring an open heart. Only way it works here.»*
Veronica arrived in June—no bright jackets, no fuss. Just a notebook and scared eyes.
«I’m… unnecessary,» she confessed by day three. «Husband left. Kids glued to screens. Who am I without ‘normal’?»
«Here, you just *are*,» Tia said.
«Can I stay?»
«Not ‘stay.’ *Begin*.»
By summer’s end, a sign went up: *»The Forgetting River House.»* Thought up by Annie:
«It’s not about erasing. It’s leaving behind… to find what’s next.»
Andy carved the letters. Tia hung a wooden heart from an old boat nearby. It pulsed steady—like hers.
Autumn brought their first art residency. Ten came—composers, a playwright, a lawyer sick of courts, an anxious teen and his mum. They sang, carved birch, left tokens in the woods.
«This place doesn’t heal,» Alice said, leaving. «It lets you heal *yourself*.»
Tia knew.
Winter returned. In the workshop lamplight, Tia reread Esme’s postcard: *»You’re my river. Thank you.»* Outside, Andy and Vicky—her apprentice now—chopped ice for the sauna.
She joined them, leaning into Andy. «We’ll build another cabin come spring. For those who don’t know they belong yet.»
He nodded. And Tia knew—her home wasn’t just in the woods. It was in anyone who typed *»The Forgetting River House»* into their maps, heart ready to find itself anew.