The skinny newborn baby lay quietly on a soft cloth, his tiny body barely moving except for gentle breaths. His arms rested close to his chest, and his legs looked too thin for such a young life. Hunger had drained his strength, leaving him calm, obedient, and silent. He did not cry. He simply waited.
Earlier, he had tried to lift his head, searching weakly for food. His eyes opened slowly, dull but hopeful, scanning the space around him. When no milk came, no warm body answered, he gave up and closed his eyes again. Waiting felt easier than crying. His small stomach was empty, but his body had learned patience too early.
The smell of banana lingered faintly nearby, prepared carefully to give him nutrients his fragile body needed. Though asleep, his lips moved slightly, making soft sucking motions in his dreams. Even in rest, instinct reminded him to survive. His fingers twitched once, then relaxed again.
Mom watched closely, heart heavy with worry. She knew this newborn needed strength, not just sleep. She waited for the right moment, letting his body rest before feeding him. Covering him gently, she whispered softly, promising food was coming. He did not hear the words, but he felt the warmth.
When he finally stirred, eyes opening just a little, the banana was ready. Slowly, carefully, Mom brought the nutrient-rich food closer. The newborn responded instinctively, opening his mouth weakly. He ate slowly, obediently, trusting the hands that fed him. With each small bite, life returned quietly.
After feeding, he drifted back to sleep, no longer empty, no longer just waiting. He was still skinny, still fragile, but nourished. That simple moment—sleeping patiently, waking to eat—was proof of quiet strength. Sometimes survival is not loud. Sometimes it is a newborn resting silently, trusting that someone will come, and that food, warmth, and care will arrive in time
