Today was a heartbreaking day for the little newborn monkey. Just a few days ago, there was hope that he might slowly recover with warmth, milk, and gentle care. But this morning, his condition was clearly worse. His tiny chest rose and fell with difficulty, each breath more shallow than the one before. His once soft cries had grown faint, and now only a weak whimper escaped his fragile body.
His arms and legs, which used to wiggle with small bursts of energy, now lay almost still. The weakness was spreading through him, and his caretaker could see that his strength was fading. When offered the bottle, he tried to suckle but quickly gave up, exhausted before even taking a few drops. The sight broke the heart of everyone watching.
His caretaker gently wrapped him in a warm cloth, holding him close to provide comfort. A hand stroked his thin fur, whispering softly as if words alone could help him fight. The fishy smell from his little body was still present, but today it was no longer the main concern—his survival was.
Every moment felt heavy with worry, every movement carefully watched. The caretaker checked his breathing, rubbed his tiny hands to keep him warm, and prayed silently for him to gather the strength to fight. Yet, the baby monkey’s eyes looked distant, glazed with exhaustion.
The room grew quiet except for the faint sound of his weak breathing. Though his condition was worse today, love and hope remained. Even in his weakest moment, he was not alone—he had arms to hold him, warmth to cover him, and hearts that would never give up on him.
