Newborn baby monkey Somo lay quietly in a soft cloth, his tiny chest rising and falling with great effort. Just days ago, he had been found alone, cold, and helpless, abandoned to a fate far too cruel for such a fragile life. Rescue came in time, but survival was still uncertain.
Somo was so weak he could barely lift his head. His eyes opened only for seconds, cloudy with exhaustion, before closing again. Every small movement drained him. Even crying took too much strength, so he suffered in silence, communicating only through shallow breaths and tiny finger twitches.
The caregiver stayed close, never leaving his side. Warmth was given first, then gentle drops of milk, measured carefully so his body would not be overwhelmed. Somo struggled to swallow, but instinct pushed him forward. Life, no matter how small, wants to continue.
Each hour became a test. Would his breathing steady? Would his body accept food? Would his heart stay strong through the night? Hope and fear lived side by side, refusing to separate.
Somo slept often, not the peaceful sleep of comfort, but the heavy sleep of recovery. His body was fighting battles no newborn should face. Still, there were signs. A tighter grip around a finger. A slightly stronger breath. A faint stretch of his legs.
Adoption was waiting, but first came healing. Love could not rush this process. It had to move slowly, patiently, respectfully. Somo did not need excitement. He needed safety.
As dawn arrived, Somo opened his eyes a little wider. He was still weak, still fragile, but he was here. Alive. Trying.
Sometimes survival is not loud or dramatic. Sometimes it is quiet strength, hidden inside a tiny body that refuses to give up, even when the world has already failed him once.
