Aba was so impossibly small that even the soft towel beneath him seemed too heavy. When rescuers first lifted him from the animal market, he barely made a sound—just a faint, shaky whimper that broke everyone’s heart. His fur was thin, his body cold, and his breaths short and uneven. A newborn should have been asleep on his mother’s chest, not lying alone in a place where no one cared if he survived. But today, Aba’s life was finally beginning to change.
The caregiver hurried him home, wrapping him in warm cloth and rubbing his tiny back to spark life into his fragile body. Aba tried to lift his head, but it wobbled and fell. He let out a weak cry, more like a soft squeak, as if asking why everything hurt so much. The caregiver answered not with words, but with action—warming milk, adjusting the bottle, and holding him gently as though he might break.
When the extra milk finally touched his lips, Aba froze. For a moment he didn’t know what to do, but instinct slowly returned. He opened his tiny mouth and began to drink. Every swallow was shaky, but determined, like a baby fighting for the right to stay in this world. His fingers twitched, trying to grip the edge of the towel. His belly rose and fell in rhythm with each sip, proof that the milk was filling more than just his stomach—it was filling him with hope.
As he drank, his eyes fluttered open, revealing a frightened but trusting gaze. He pressed his head against the caregiver’s chest, searching for warmth he had lost too soon. The caregiver responded by cradling him closer, whispering soft encouragement to keep him calm. For the first time since he was born, Aba wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t forgotten.
When the bottle emptied, he let out a tiny sigh—a fragile but hopeful sound. His body relaxed, curling naturally into the safety of the caregiver’s hand. He drifted to sleep, breathing steadier with each passing minute.
Tonight, little Aba wasn’t just rescued.
Tonight, he began to heal.
