The baby monkey lay curled under a pile of rags behind an abandoned stall. She was shivering, too weak to cry. Her body was thin, ribs showing, and her hands—oh, her hands told the whole story.
One finger was swollen twice its size, with a deep wound leaking thick, yellow pus. The other hand had scrapes, cuts, and bruises—fresh and old, layered over each other. Someone had left her here, wounded and forgotten.
When Lian found her, she gasped. “Oh no… what happened to you, baby?”
The monkey didn’t move.
At home, Lian wrapped her in a soft towel and placed her on the table. She boiled water, mixed in salt, and soaked a clean cloth. As she gently dabbed the infected finger, pus oozed out. The smell made her stomach twist, but she didn’t stop. She whispered soothing words as the baby whimpered in pain, her little body trembling under the cloth.
“It’s okay now. I’ve got you.”
She squeezed the wound carefully, letting the infection drain. Then she rinsed it again with warm salt water, her hands steady despite the heartbreak. On the other hand, she cleaned the smaller wounds, brushing away dried blood and applying a thin layer of healing balm.
She wrapped both hands in soft gauze, then cradled the baby close.
The monkey’s eyes fluttered open, cloudy and tired—but she didn’t flinch anymore. She rested her face on Lian’s arm, breathing softly.
For the first time, someone cared enough to help her heal. Not just her wounds, but her fear, her loneliness, her abandonment.
And as the night fell, wrapped in warmth and love, the little one—now named Mali—finally slept without pain.
