At the back of a dimly lit animal market, hidden behind rusted cages and torn tarps, were three tiny newborn baby monkeys. They were barely the size of a human hand—born prematurely, eyes still sealed shut, fur damp and patchy. Their fragile bodies trembled with each breath, their cries weak, barely audible over the market’s noise.
They were unwanted.
“Too small,” one vendor muttered. “No one’s gonna buy those.”
Their mother had died during delivery. Now, the babies were left in a dirty box lined with a torn cloth and a few pieces of spoiled fruit. Flies hovered. Their skin clung tightly to their bones. They were hungry, helpless, and filthy.
A kind woman named Lian, visiting the market to rescue a parrot, noticed them. Her heart dropped. She couldn’t look away. “How much for these babies?” she asked.
The vendor shrugged. “Poor taste, nobody wants them. Take ’em.”
Lian gently picked them up, one by one, cradling their frail bodies against her chest. They smelled of dirt and despair. At home, she prepared a soft blanket, warmed milk, and a bowl of warm water. One by one, she cleaned them—delicate fingers wiping away crusted dirt from their tiny hands, a warm cloth against their bellies, soft kisses between each gentle scrub.
They were still so weak, but in that moment, their world changed. No longer just market leftovers—now, they were safe.
She named them Hope, Nilo, and Bao.
Their journey was far from over, but they had someone now. Someone who saw value where others saw nothing. Someone who didn’t see poor taste—but precious life.
