Under the heavy gray sky, rain poured relentlessly on the shelter’s yard. Everyone had rushed under roofs, but one figure remained out in the open—Old Jade, the elder mother monkey, clutching her beliefs from the wild.
In front of her sat a tiny baby monkey, shivering, soaked to the bone. He had tried to follow Jade, reaching out for warmth, but Jade struck him lightly on the back. Not once—but again, with a sharp glare, as if to say, “Stay away.”
The caregiver watching from the porch felt heartache swell inside. Jade wasn’t cruel by instinct—she was old, raised in the wild, where lessons were harsh. She believed in strength. She believed a baby should earn its place by enduring.
But this baby was not from the wild. He was born into gentleness, into warmth and feeding bottles—not stormy discipline and cold rejection.
The rain kept falling. The baby monkey didn’t cry, but his eyes said everything. Confusion. Sadness. Longing.
Finally, the caregiver walked out into the rain, picked up the baby, and held him close. His small body melted into the warmth. Jade didn’t follow. She sat quietly on the edge, watching. Maybe unsure. Maybe remembering.
Inside, the baby dried off, fed with warm milk, and wrapped in soft cloth. Safe. Loved.
Sometimes, the old ways don’t work for the new hearts. Jade’s belief didn’t make her evil—it made her broken in a world that had changed.
But for the little one, only love could help him grow. Not rain. Not fear.
Not a strike in the storm.
