Milton, the tiny rescued monkey, now lived in a warm, quiet house near the temple.
He was no longer lying alone in the grass. He had soft blankets, a clean basket to sleep in, and gentle hands to care for him every day.
Milton was still very small. His fur was thin, and he needed milk every few hours. But he was safe now. He had a name, and he had people who watched over him with love.
Every morning, the man who rescued him would sit beside his basket and feed him warm milk from a little bottle. Milton’s tiny fingers held the bottle tightly as he drank, his eyes blinking slowly.
“You’re getting stronger, Milton,” the man said softly.
Milton couldn’t walk yet, but he could lift his head. He would look around the room, turning toward soft sounds—birds outside the window, the bell from the temple, or the quiet voice of his caregiver.
When the sun came through the window, Milton liked to curl up in the warm light and nap.
Sometimes, he made tiny squeaks in his sleep, dreaming baby monkey dreams.
The people in the house loved him already. They moved gently around him, gave him soft towels, and made sure he stayed warm.
“He’s still so small,” one of them whispered, “but he’s a brave little soul.”
And he was.
Milton had survived his hardest days. Now he was growing stronger, day by day, in a home filled with care.
No longer scared. No longer alone.
Just a baby monkey beginning his second chance—with a name, a family, and a future.
