Wrapped gently in a soft towel, newborn baby monkey Aba lay motionless in the caretaker’s lap. His tiny chest rose and fell ever so faintly, each breath shallow and weak. His face, still wrinkled from birth, looked pale and exhausted. He had entered the world too early, too fragile.
The rescue center had received him just hours ago. A kind villager found him abandoned near the edge of a banana grove, barely clinging to life. No mother in sight—only soft cries that faded quickly into silence.
Now, inside the quiet nursery room, the team worked urgently. A warm light glowed above him. Drops of milk were given slowly with a small syringe. Oxygen flowed lightly near his nose. But Aba’s breathing stayed low, and his limbs barely twitched.
“Come on, little one,” whispered Dara, one of the caregivers, gently rubbing his chest. “You’re strong. You can make it.”
Another worker softly stroked his hand and began to hum. The room felt still, heavy with hope and worry. It was a moment where even the strongest hearts felt fragile.
Some volunteers gathered outside, offering silent prayers. They had seen rescues before—but something about Aba’s tiny body, his barely-there breath, and the way his ears slightly moved when someone called his name—it was impossible not to care.
An hour passed. Then two.
Aba moved his head. Just slightly. A blink. A breath, a little deeper than the last. Dara gasped, holding her own breath.
“He’s fighting,” she whispered.
In that moment, all they could do was wait, pray, and believe that Aba’s fragile body held a lion’s heart.
