The newborn baby monkey lay curled on the soft cloth, his body impossibly small against the wide, quiet room.
His eyes were barely open, glossy with fear and confusion.
He did not understand where his mother was.
He only knew she was gone.
A thin, trembling cry escaped his mouth.
It was not loud, but it was desperate.
A call written by instinct, older than fear itself.
“Mommy… where are you?”
His tiny hands waved weakly in the air, fingers opening and closing as if trying to grab her warmth.
Hunger twisted inside his belly, sharp and painful.
His mouth searched blindly, hoping to find milk, hoping to find comfort.
Nothing came.
The room felt too big.
Every sound startled him.
His body shook, not from cold alone, but from terror.
New to the world, everything felt dangerous without her heartbeat beside him.
He cried again, louder this time, his voice cracking, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and rolled down his soft face.
He did not know how to be brave.
He only knew how to call for his mother.
His cries grew weaker, turning into soft whimpers.
Energy faded as hunger drained his strength.
Still, he tried.
Again and again, he called, because giving up was not an option.
A baby’s hope is stubborn.
Finally, gentle movement approached.
Warm hands wrapped around his fragile body, lifting him carefully.
The newborn clung instinctively, pressing his face into the warmth.
His crying slowed, then softened into quiet sobs.
When milk finally touched his lips, relief washed over him.
His body relaxed for the first time.
Fear loosened its grip.
Safe at last, the tiny baby drank, eyes fluttering closed.
The world was still scary.
