A Tong sat alone on the wooden table, his tiny body stiff with emotion, eyes wide and shining with tears. The moment he realized his mother was not near, his chest tightened, and a sharp scream tore from his throat. It was loud, sudden, and filled with panic. He slapped his little hands on the table, searching, turning his head left and right, hoping to see her familiar shape appear.
His cries echoed through the room, high and desperate. Each scream sounded like a question: Mom, where are you? Why aren’t you here? His lips trembled as tears rolled down his cheeks, wetting the fur around his face. He leaned forward, peering over the edge of the table, then cried even louder when she still didn’t come.
A Tong wasn’t angry for no reason. He felt abandoned. The table felt too big, too high, too empty. Without his mother’s arms, the world seemed unsafe. His small body shook as he screamed again, calling with all the strength he had, voice cracking under the weight of fear.
Minutes felt endless. His cries turned hoarse, but he refused to stop. He kicked his feet, frustration and sadness mixing together. Every sound he made was a plea for comfort, for reassurance, for love.
Then footsteps approached. A Tong froze, eyes locking onto the doorway. When his mother finally appeared, his scream broke into sobs. His arms stretched out instantly, fingers opening and closing desperately.
She rushed to him, lifting him off the table and holding him tight against her chest. The crying softened into broken sniffles. His body relaxed as her warmth surrounded him, her heartbeat steady beneath his ear.
A Tong sighed deeply, exhaustion replacing fear. He wasn’t loud because he was spoiled. He screamed because he loved deeply, and for a moment, he thought he was alone.
