Little Riri’s cries echoed softly in the corner of the garden. The baby monkey, so tiny and fragile, had been left all alone inside a clay flower pot. His small hands clutched at the rough edge, his face peeking out as he called for someone—anyone—to come. His round belly ached with hunger, and what he wanted most was warm milk and the safety of his mother’s arms.
The garden, usually full of life, felt so big and lonely around him. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, their petals brushing against him, as if trying to comfort the abandoned baby. But flowers could not feed him, nor could the clay pot give him warmth. His cries grew sharper, his tiny voice trembling with desperation.
His fur was dusty, his little cheeks wet with tears. Every whimper carried the same plea: “I need milk. I need love. Don’t leave me here.” Yet the world stayed quiet, the only answer a bird’s distant call.
Riri shifted, trying to climb out, but his body was too weak. Hunger had drained his strength, and he slumped back into the pot, his eyes dim with exhaustion. Still, he refused to give up. He let out another cry—louder, longer—his last hope that someone kind would hear him.
And in that pitiful moment, surrounded by flowers, Riri’s tiny voice became a symbol of innocence abandoned. He was just a baby, hungry and helpless, yet still fighting for the chance to be loved.
