In the corner of a peaceful public park, visitors often pause near a shaded tree—not for the view, but for a tiny newborn monkey who sits quietly each day.
His mother, Shabrina, had been a familiar face to locals. She was gentle, smart, and often seen swinging through the trees, always curious but cautious. Not long ago, she gave birth right beneath that same tree. People watched with awe as she held her baby for the first time.
But joy quickly turned to sorrow.
Shabrina, weakened from the difficult birth, collapsed shortly after. Despite efforts to help, she passed away moments later, her arms still loosely wrapped around her baby.
The newborn, confused and helpless, cried softly. He couldn’t understand what had happened—only that the warmth, heartbeat, and voice he’d known were gone.
Locals began to care for him. They brought milk, soft cloth, and even small stuffed toys. But every day, the baby monkey returned to that exact spot—where his mother Shabrina had held him and softly called to him for the first and last time.
He didn’t wander far. He sat beneath the tree, eyes scanning the sky, ears twitching at every wind that passed through the leaves—as if still waiting to hear her call his name again.
Though young, he carried the sadness of loss in his tiny heart.
A kind woman named Mali now visits him daily. She feeds him gently, talks to him, and calls him “Little Hope.”
And as the baby grows day by day, under the same sky his mother once looked up to, her memory lives on—not just in that park, but in the tiny life she left behind.
