The jungle was quiet that night, the moon hanging low behind drifting clouds. High up in an old fig tree, a tiny baby monkey named Charlie clung to a branch, his small body trembling in the cool night air. He was alone — frightened, hungry, and too young to understand why his mother wasn’t there anymore.
Earlier that day, he had followed her through the trees, his little hands gripping branches, trying to keep up. But when she leapt to another tree, he hesitated — and then she was gone. The jungle swallowed her shadow, leaving him behind.
Now, the night had fallen, and Charlie couldn’t find her scent anywhere. His big eyes glistened with tears as he looked around, calling out softly, “Eee… eee…” hoping she might answer. Only the distant chirping of crickets replied.
The wind rustled the leaves, making the branches sway. Charlie tried to curl up tightly, wrapping his tiny tail around the branch, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every sound — an owl’s call, a leaf falling — made him flinch. His heart beat fast, his stomach growled, and his little hands refused to let go.
Tears rolled down his cheeks as he pressed his face against the rough bark, whispering small cries into the dark. He missed the warmth of his mother’s fur, the rhythm of her heartbeat, the safety of her arms.
As the night stretched on, exhaustion finally took over. Charlie’s eyes slowly closed, though fear lingered in every breath. The moonlight touched his fragile frame, shimmering like a promise that tomorrow might be kinder.
Somewhere in the distance, another monkey stirred — perhaps hearing his faint cries.
And though Charlie slept alone that night, the jungle itself seemed to cradle him gently, whispering, “You’re not forgotten, little one.”
