In the dim corner of a straw-lined cage, a newborn baby monkey lay trembling—his body still wet, his limbs barely strong enough to move. The world was new and loud, and he wasn’t ready for any of it.
But the worst part was the sharp, stabbing pain in his belly.
His umbilical cord had been severed roughly, not by his mother, but by careless hands at the animal market where he had just been born. No tenderness. No comfort. Just a snip, a yank—and then pain.
The baby’s eyes remained sealed shut, but his mouth opened wide.
A soft, desperate cry escaped.
Then another.
And another.
His tiny voice was hoarse, yet piercing. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the fear, the cold, the aching confusion of being ripped from the only safety he had ever known.
No mother to lick his wounds. No arms to hold him close.
A worker walked past and glanced down at him. “This one’s loud,” he muttered, barely noticing the blood that still oozed from the tiny stump on the baby’s belly.
But someone else noticed.
A rescuer—gentle, kind—heard that cry and rushed over. Her heart broke at the sight of the newborn, curled and crying, with no warmth, no comfort, no care.
She scooped him into a soft towel, held him close to her chest, and whispered, “It’s okay now… I’ve got you.”
The baby flinched at first—but the warmth, the heartbeat, the scent of safety… slowly eased his trembling.
His cries faded into soft whimpers.
He was still in pain.
Still wounded.
But now… he wasn’t alone.
And sometimes, that makes all the difference.
