The baby monkey lay quietly on the soft towel, his tiny body trembling from pure exhaustion. His fur was thin and patchy, stretched tightly over fragile bones that showed how little he had been given to survive on. Just hours ago, he had been hidden in the darkness of the black market, surrounded by noise, fear, and neglect. Now, under gentle light, his tired eyes slowly blinked open, trying to understand what safety felt like.
He was so weak he could barely lift his head. Every small movement cost him effort. His belly was empty, his limbs light as twigs, his breathing shallow but steady. When the rescuer touched him, he flinched at first, unsure if kindness was real. But the warm hands were patient, and the soft voice never left him.
A drop of warm milk touched his lips. He hesitated, confused by the unfamiliar care. Then instinct took over. His tiny mouth opened, and he began to drink in weak, shaking swallows. Each sip returned a little strength to his fragile body. His breathing slowed. The tight fear in his chest softened.
After feeding, the rescuer wrapped him in a clean cloth. For the first time in his short life, he felt warmth that did not come from the sun. He curled his tiny fingers into the fabric and let out a faint sigh of relief. The fight inside him eased just enough for sleep to find him.
As he slept, his body still looked unbearably small, still painfully skinny. But he was alive. His heart was beating steadily. And for the first time, someone was watching over him.
He had suffered in silence behind cages and hands that only took.
Now he rested in hands that gave.
He was still weak.
But he was finally safe.
