In the quiet corner of the room, baby Tony sat still — far too still for a little monkey.
His small body was slouched on the cool floor, legs folded beneath him, arms resting limp at his side. His head drooped forward, and his eyes blinked slowly, as if it took all his energy just to stay awake.
Tony wasn’t playing. He wasn’t exploring. He wasn’t even crying.
He was simply… tired.
This wasn’t the usual kind of tired. It was the deep weakness that comes from not feeling well — the kind that drains the spirit and leaves even the most playful monkey silent.
Earlier that day, Tony had skipped breakfast. When the others were climbing and chattering, he stayed behind, barely able to lift his head. His caregivers had noticed, of course — rushing to check his temperature, wrap him in a soft towel, and hold him gently in their arms.
Now, they sat nearby, watching closely with worried hearts.
“Come on, little one,” whispered the caretaker, gently brushing Tony’s fur. “You’re going to be okay.”
Tony gave a faint blink. His little fingers twitched against the floor, but he didn’t move.
A warm bottle was placed next to him. A soft blanket covered his back. And slowly, with care, he was lifted and placed on a pillow in the sunshine near the window.
He blinked again… this time, a little faster.
The warmth helped. The love helped even more.
He wasn’t strong yet. But he was safe. And that meant the world.
Because sometimes, healing doesn’t start with medicine — it starts with being held, with being seen, and with someone whispering,
