In a quiet corner of the garden, the air was still—except for one heartbreaking sound.
A newborn baby monkey, barely strong enough to stand, clung tightly to the rough bark of a dried tree. His tiny fingers trembled. His eyes, still swollen from birth, looked around in fear and confusion.
He was alone.
His mother was nowhere in sight. Whether she had abandoned him or been forced to leave, no one knew. But the baby knew one thing—he was scared.
He let out a high-pitched cry, one that echoed through the garden.
Again. And again.
Each sound more desperate than the last.
The dried tree, though lifeless, became his comfort. He wrapped his little arms around it like it was his mother. His sobs shook his tiny chest. He didn’t want food. He didn’t want to play.
He just wanted someone to come.
A caretaker heard the cries from a distance.
Rushing outside, she found the baby pressed against the trunk, face buried, body shaking. Tears welled in her eyes as she slowly approached.
“It’s okay, little one,” she whispered, voice trembling.
She extended her hands gently.
At first, the baby screamed louder, too scared to understand. But when she softly picked him up, wrapping him in a warm cloth, he clung to her with the same grip he gave the tree—but now with hope.
Back inside, he was fed warm milk, cuddled, and cleaned. His cries softened into hiccups, and soon, into quiet sleep.
That day, the garden held not just sadness—but a spark of comfort.
Because though abandoned, this tiny soul had been found.
And a dried tree was the last thing he would ever have to cling to again.
