Tiny Koy sat curled up on the cool floor, her thin arms wrapped tightly around her belly. Her little face was scrunched in sadness, and tears welled up in her wide, innocent eyes. She hadn’t eaten in hours, and her stomach growled softly, reminding her just how empty it felt.
Her cries started off quiet—soft sobs, barely heard. But as the minutes passed, they grew louder. Sharp, aching wails filled the room, full of hunger and confusion.
She looked around, but her mother was nowhere nearby.
The others were busy, some resting, some playing. But little Koy, too young and too weak, had no one to turn to. She crawled slowly toward a corner where she remembered drinking milk before—but today, the bowl was gone.
She cried again, louder this time. Her voice cracked, and she reached her tiny hand out, hoping someone—anyone—would come.
Finally, a caretaker entered.
The moment Koy saw the familiar face, her cries turned into desperate squeaks. She crawled forward as fast as she could, clinging to the caretaker’s foot, begging without words.
The caretaker immediately scooped her up, pressing her gently to their chest. “Oh, sweet girl,” they whispered. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
Within moments, a warm bottle of milk was placed into Koy’s tiny hands. She latched on instantly, drinking eagerly, tears still wet on her cheeks.
Her little body softened with every sip. The fear, the sadness, the empty ache—it all began to fade.
And for the first time that day, Koy closed her eyes in peace.
