Little A Tong lay curled on the soft cloth, his tiny body folded strangely, legs tucked beneath him like a small frog. He was deeply asleep, unmoving, breathing so lightly it was hard not to worry. His thin chest rose and fell slowly, each breath precious. After days of weakness, sleep was the only thing his fragile body could manage.
His fur looked dull, his arms thinner than they should be. Hunger and exhaustion had drained his strength. Even in sleep, his face showed traces of struggle—slightly parted lips, a faint twitch as if dreaming of warmth and safety. No playful movements, no curious sounds. Just deep, heavy rest from a body that had been pushed too far.
Mom watched closely, afraid to touch him too much. She placed her hand near his back, feeling the warmth still there, thankful he was breathing steadily. A Tong didn’t stir. He stayed curled tightly, protecting himself instinctively, like a newborn seeking comfort without knowing how to ask. The room stayed quiet, filled with worry and hope mixed together.
Every few minutes, Mom leaned closer, listening carefully. When A Tong let out a tiny sigh, her heart eased just a little. Sleep, she knew, could heal what fear and hunger had damaged. She adjusted the blanket gently, making sure he stayed warm, careful not to wake him from the deep rest he desperately needed.
As the hours passed, A Tong remained asleep in the same frog-like position. Weak, yes—but alive. Safe. Loved. That small body, once close to giving up, was now gathering strength silently. His sleep was not just rest. It was recovery. And as long as he slept peacefully, Mom believed tomorrow might bring a little more energy, a little more hope, and another chance for Little A Tong to grow stronger.
