In the quiet of the night, the sound of tiny cries filled the small room. The newborn baby monkey lay in Mom’s arms, trembling as she tried to feed him milk. His little face was pale, his eyes half-open, and every breath came with effort. Though he was hungry, his body was too weak — and the pain made him cry loudly, over and over again.
“Shhh, it’s okay, my baby,” Mom whispered, holding him close. But the little one kept screaming, his fragile voice echoing with fear and discomfort. His sickness had grown worse since yesterday — his stomach looked bloated, his body cold to touch. Mom’s heart ached with worry.
She tilted the bottle gently toward his mouth, hoping he would drink. The baby whimpered, his hands twitching, his lips barely touching the nipple. A few drops of milk went in, and for a moment, he stopped crying. But then another wave of pain came — and his voice rose again, a heartbreaking scream that showed just how much he was suffering.
Mom’s eyes filled with tears. She wiped his face softly and rocked him in her hands, whispering, “You have to stay strong, sweetheart. Please keep fighting.” Her voice trembled, her hands shaking as she tried to comfort him.
Every few minutes, she gave him tiny sips, just enough to keep his strength up. The baby’s eyes flickered with exhaustion, but there was still life in them — a small spark refusing to fade. Even through the pain, he tried to hold on, his fingers curling weakly around Mom’s thumb.
After a long hour, his cries began to slow. The milk had soothed him a little, and warmth began to return to his body. Mom wrapped him in a soft towel and placed him against her chest. She could feel his heartbeat — faint, but steady.
In the darkness, she whispered one last promise: “You’re safe now, my little one. I’ll take care of you, no matter what.”
The newborn drifted into a restless sleep, still weak but no longer alone. His tiny cries faded, replaced by the soft rhythm of survival — a fragile melody of hope in the arms of love.
