The baby monkey lay curled in a small blanket, his body weak and tired. He cried softly, not with anger, but with exhaustion and pain. Each sound was a thin whimper, barely loud enough to fill the room, yet heavy with suffering. His eyes stayed half closed, blinking slowly, as if even tears required too much strength.
Milk was offered gently, warmed and prepared with care. At first, he tried to drink. His lips moved weakly, taking small sips, hoping for comfort. For a moment, it seemed to help. His cries slowed, and his tiny fingers twitched, clinging to the bottle like hope.
But sickness took over. His stomach tightened, and his body stiffened. A sudden tremble ran through him, followed by a weak gag. The milk came back up, spilling from his mouth as he vomited, his body shaking in distress. His soft cries turned into breathless whimpers, confused and frightened by pain.
The caregiver reacted quickly, lifting him upright, wiping his mouth, rubbing his back slowly. No scolding, no panic, only calm hands and a worried heart. The baby cried again, quieter now, too tired to scream.
His breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling fast. Milk time, once a comfort, had become a struggle. Hunger remained, but his body could not accept what it needed most. He leaned weakly into the warmth holding him, seeking safety instead of food.
Wrapped tighter, he was rocked gently. Soft words filled the space around him, reminding him he was not alone. The crying faded into faint moans, then into silence broken only by shallow breaths.
He was sick. He was fragile. But he was loved. Warmth stayed. Patience stayed. Hope stayed. As long as his small heart continued beating, everyone believed he had a chance to grow stronger and heal.
