On the rug, the baby monkey lay curled, ribs rising fast with hunger. His eyes stayed closed, but his mouth searched, opening and closing in helpless rhythm. Each cry came soft, then sharper, calling for mom, calling for milk, calling for comfort. The rug felt cold against his belly, smelling of dust and yesterday. Waiting hurt more than hunger.
Minutes stretched. His hands trembled, clutching fibers, pulling them close like they might become warmth. He whimpered again, louder now, voice cracking with need. Sleep tried to claim him, but hunger dragged him back awake. He kicked weakly, then stilled, saving energy. Tears dampened the rug beneath his cheek.
Mom heard him at last. Footsteps hurried, familiar and safe. She knelt, lifting him gently, pressing him to her chest. His cries surged, releasing fear held tight. She whispered his name, rocking slowly, warming him with skin and breath. The room softened around them.
Milk warmed quickly. The bottle touched his lips, and the crying stopped mid-breath. He latched eagerly, hands gripping, swallowing fast. Relief spread through his small body. His breathing slowed. His shoulders dropped. Each sip rebuilt trust.
Mom stayed close, not rushing away. She watched his eyelids flutter, heavy now with comfort. When the bottle emptied, he sighed, a tiny sound of peace. She wiped his mouth, kissed his head, and laid him back on the rug, now padded with a blanket.
He slept at last, full and safe. Hunger no longer ruled him. The rug felt warm. Mom stayed nearby, promising through presence that cries would be answered, mornings would come, and milk would always follow love.
In quiet dawn moments, she listened, breathing together, guarding his rest, learning patience, learning faith, knowing every answered cry stitches courage into tomorrow for both of them with gentle unwavering hope.
