Deep in the thick jungle, where birds called overhead and shadows danced between the trees, a heartbreaking sound echoed through the leaves —
a tiny, desperate cry.
It was the voice of a poor baby monkey, no more than a few weeks old, lost and terrified.
He sat shivering on a mossy root, eyes wide, fur damp with morning dew. His tiny body shook with fear, and every minute that passed without his mother made his cries louder, sharper.
“EEHHH! MAAA!” he screamed into the emptiness.
There were no answers.
Branches creaked above, but they weren’t his mom. The sounds of the forest now felt cold and strange. His little feet were scratched from walking, and his stomach growled with hunger.
Just when his voice began to weaken, hope arrived.
A group of rescuers, alerted by villagers who had heard the cries from afar, carefully made their way through the underbrush. One of them stopped, frozen, as the sound grew louder.
“There!” she whispered.
They spotted the baby — hunched over, clutching a curled leaf, crying so hard his tiny body shook.
Slowly, gently, they approached.
The baby tried to back away, eyes wild with confusion, but his strength was gone. He let out one last loud sob before collapsing into the rescuer’s soft gloved hands.
“Poor thing,” she murmured, holding him close.
Wrapped in a warm cloth, the baby monkey felt arms around him — not his mother’s, but kind and safe. He clung tightly, his cries softening at last.
That night, he slept under shelter for the first time, a full belly and gentle hands nearby.
He didn’t know what tomorrow held, but he had survived the jungle… and he wasn’t alone anymore.
