At the base of a huge tree, the baby monkey lay crying, his voice thin and desperate. The trunk rose like a wall above him, leaves whispering while his stomach screamed. He clutched the bark with trembling fingers, searching the branches for food, for mom, for anything that would answer.
Hours earlier, he had tried to climb, but weakness pulled him back down. Hunger made the world blur. His ribs showed through dusty fur, and his eyes begged every shadow to become kindness. Ants crawled near his hands, and he pulled away, too tired to fight.
He cried again, louder, the sound bouncing off roots and stone. The jungle kept moving. Birds passed. Light shifted. No milk came. No fruit fell. Only the ache remained.
Then footsteps softened the ground. A figure stopped, noticing the small body pressed against the tree. Gentle hands approached slowly, careful not to frighten him. The baby screamed once more, fear mixing with hope, then reached out, gripping a finger with surprising strength.
Warmth replaced cold. He was lifted, supported at the head, held close. His cries cracked into sobs. Water cleaned his mouth. A bottle arrived, tested, then offered. He drank fast, paused, breathed, then drank again. Color returned to his face as strength crept back.
Wrapped in cloth, he rested against a steady heartbeat. The huge tree stood behind them, no longer a prison but a marker of survival. Hunger loosened its grip. Fear quieted.
This baby did not cry because he was loud. He cried because he needed food. Someone listened. In that listening, life turned. Beneath the giant tree, a starving cry became a promise kept, and a future began, one careful feeding, one held breath, one gentle moment at a time. For him today, tomorrow felt possible, warm, safe, home.
