The poor newborn baby monkey froze at the edge of the water, eyes wide with terror. The surface shimmered, unfamiliar and loud, and every ripple felt like danger. His tiny chest rose fast as he trembled, clutching himself as if that could stop the fear.
When a drop splashed near his feet, he flinched hard. A thin cry escaped, sharp and broken. Water was cold, heavy, and smelled wrong. Instinct screamed run, but his legs were weak. He stumbled backward, slipping on wet ground, panic spilling out in frantic sounds.
Memories he could not name haunted him. A fall, a rush, the feeling of sinking. His body remembered even if his mind could not. He cried louder, shaking from head to tail, searching for warmth, for fur, for a heartbeat that matched his own.
Gentle hands approached slowly. He tried to crawl away, slipping again, fear peaking. The hands paused, then wrapped him in cloth, lifting him away from the water’s reach. Instantly his cries softened, though his body still trembled. Warmth replaced the bite of cold.
Held close, he buried his face, breathing fast. Soft words flowed, steady and calm. The water stayed behind, quiet now, unable to touch him. His eyes blinked, still glossy, but the terror eased.
Time passed. His shaking slowed. Tiny fingers loosened. He peeked out, cautious, watching the water from safety. It moved, but it could not take him.
This newborn was not weak for being afraid. He was learning what hurt and what healed. Fear taught him to cling to life; care taught him he was safe.
Tonight, wrapped and protected, he rests. The water no longer roars in his chest. Trust begins as a fragile thing, born the moment fear is met with kindness. Love stays, patience grows, and hope quietly returns.
