Heavy rain hammered the ground like thousands of tiny drums, each drop louder than the last. Four tiny abandoned monkeys huddled together beneath a thin, broken branch that barely shielded them at all. Their fur was soaked, clinging to their fragile bodies, and the cold wind cut through them like ice. Each baby trembled, shivering not only from the storm but from the fear of being alone in a world far too big and harsh for them.
The smallest one whimpered first—an exhausted, shaky cry swallowed almost instantly by the roaring rain. Another pressed closer, wrapping tiny arms around him as if trying to share what little warmth remained. Their bellies were empty, their strength fading, and every flash of lightning made them flinch as though the sky itself were angry at them. They looked out into the dark, hoping their mother might appear, but there was only the storm.
Despite their fear, the four babies refused to separate. When the wind pushed them, they pushed back, leaning into one another for balance. When the rain grew heavier, they squeezed tighter, forming a tiny circle of hope in the middle of chaos. Still, the cold was winning. Their cries grew softer, their movements slower. They needed shelter—something more than a branch and courage—but they were too weak to search far.
Then the eldest, though barely bigger than the others, forced herself to stand. She squeaked loudly, urging the others to follow. Weak but determined, they crawled through mud and puddles, slipping and stumbling as the storm raged on. Finally, beneath an old fallen log, they found a small pocket of dry space—a fragile refuge, but enough to save them for now.
They curled up inside, shaking, exhausted, but alive.
Tonight, the storm didn’t win.
Their courage did.
