Tourtour sat alone in the quiet room, his small body tense and alert. The door had just closed behind Mom, and the silence felt too big for him. At first, he waited, eyes fixed on the doorway, believing she would return immediately. But seconds passed, then more. Panic crept in fast. His mouth opened wide, and a loud scream burst out, filling the empty space.
The scream wasn’t playful. It was desperate. Tourtour lifted his head high, calling with everything he had. His big mouth stayed open as sound poured out again and again. Being alone scared him more than hunger or tiredness. Without Mom, the room felt unsafe, unfamiliar, and cold.
He stood up, then sat back down quickly, unsure what to do. His hands hit the floor in frustration. Each scream grew sharper, louder, as if volume alone could bring Mom back. Tears gathered in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks while his voice cracked with fear. Waiting felt unbearable.
Tourtour crawled closer to the door, pressing his face near the gap underneath. He screamed again, calling blindly, hoping Mom could hear him from somewhere far away. His chest moved fast, breath uneven, heart racing. He didn’t understand why she left—only that she was gone.
Then footsteps sounded. The door opened. In an instant, Tourtour screamed one last time, louder than before, then stopped. His eyes locked onto Mom. Relief flooded his face as he rushed forward, arms lifted high. Mom picked him up immediately, holding him close. Tourtour clung tightly, still trembling, afraid she might disappear again.
His cries faded into soft whimpers against her chest. The room no longer felt empty. Mom whispered gently, rocking him until his breathing slowed. Tourtour learned something important that day. Being alone hurts deeply, but being reunited heals just as fast. His big screams came from a small heart that needed reassurance. And when Mom returned, that heart finally felt safe again.
