The world was still and quiet when the tiny baby monkey entered it—eyes closed, body trembling, breath soft and shallow. No cries of welcome, no gentle embrace. Just silence.
His mother, wild and frightened from her own pain and exhaustion, had walked away moments after giving birth. She didn’t look back.
The baby lay helpless on the cold forest floor, surrounded by rustling leaves and shadows. His skin was pink, his limbs still weak. He reached out with tiny fingers, expecting warmth, expecting her—but no one came.
Hours passed. The sun rose higher. Insects buzzed around him, and the breeze gently lifted the dried leaves around his fragile form. Still, no mother returned.
Then, he made his first sound—a small, broken whimper. His voice was soft at first, but soon it grew louder, desperate, echoing through the trees. It was a cry not just for food or comfort, but for love, for the only touch he’d never known.
Somewhere nearby, a forest ranger heard that sound. He knew that cry. He rushed through the undergrowth and found the baby lying there—alone, shivering, and covered in dust.
Carefully, the man wrapped the tiny monkey in his shirt, holding him close. The baby calmed down a little, clinging with trembling hands to his rescuer’s warmth.
Though he had lost his mother, he was not forgotten. That moment marked the beginning of a new life—a second chance. Not in the arms he expected, but in the hands of someone who cared.
He was no longer alone.
