The newborn baby monkey had only just arrived—tiny, trembling, and freshly pulled from a life of fear. His eyes were barely open, and his ribs showed through his fragile skin. Every sound startled him. Every touch made him flinch.
He had no mother.
No warmth.
No milk.
But today, that was about to change.
The caretaker cradled him softly in a blanket, sitting beside the bottle warmer. Inside was formula, carefully prepared just for him—warm, not hot, and gentle on his empty belly.
She tilted the bottle and let a drop fall onto his lips.
He flinched… sniffed… then tasted.
His lips moved slowly. Then again.
He latched.
A wave of relief swept through the room. Drop by drop, the formula filled his belly.
He didn’t drink much—but enough.
Enough to bring strength.
Enough to bring hope.
His tiny hands curled around her fingers. His legs twitched as he settled into her arms. The tremble in his body softened. The panic in his eyes dimmed.
She whispered softly, “That’s it, baby. You’re doing so well.”
She held the bottle steady, careful not to rush. A few drops spilled from the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t let go.
This wasn’t just feeding. It was healing.
He was no longer starving, no longer crying into silence.
He was being loved.
When the bottle was empty, he gave a tiny hiccup and rested his head on her chest, eyelids drooping.
She kissed his fur. “You’re safe now.”
And just like that, his new life had begun—with a bottle, a blanket, and the promise of gentle care.
