Baby monkey LiLi had always been gentle, always quiet, always seeking comfort in one simple habit — sucking on her tiny fingers whenever she felt scared or tired. It was her way of calming herself, her way of feeling close to the warmth she missed. But over time, her innocent habit slowly turned into something dangerous.
One morning, the caregiver noticed something terribly wrong.
LiLi sat curled in the corner, her usual bright eyes dull and unfocused. Her tiny hand, the one she always sucked on, hung limply beside her. When the caregiver touched her fingers gently, LiLi flinched and let out a soft, painful cry. Her little fingers were swollen, red, and tender — the first signs of infection.
She tried to lift them, but they wouldn’t move the way they used to. They felt stiff… weak… almost lifeless. LiLi looked down at them in confusion, trying again to curl her fingers, but they barely responded. Her breathing tightened, and her face scrunched with fear. She didn’t understand why her hands weren’t working. She didn’t understand why her comfort had suddenly turned into pain.
Slowly, tears gathered in her eyes.
She lifted her hand toward her mouth out of habit, seeking the soothing feeling she knew so well — but the moment her swollen fingers touched her lips, a sharp sting shot through her tiny body. She jerked back instantly, letting out a heartbreaking whimper. It hurt too much.
Her comfort was gone.
The caregiver scooped her up gently, cradling her against their chest. LiLi buried her face in their shirt, trembling softly. She clung with her other hand, the only one still strong enough to hold on, her weak fingers resting helplessly against her chest.
She wasn’t naughty.
She wasn’t difficult.
She was hurting — frightened by the infection, frightened by her own tiny body not working the way it used to.
But now she wasn’t alone.
She had someone to fight for her, protect her, and help her heal.
