The skinny baby monkey sat trembling in the caretaker’s lap, his tiny ribs showing with every shallow breath.
The nutrient milk was warm and ready, but his weakness made each sip a struggle that felt impossible.
His lips brushed the bottle gently, unsure, frightened, and desperate all at once.
Finally, he opened his mouth, trying to drink, but the milk dribbled down his chin instead of flowing inside.
His eyes flickered with frustration, because hunger burned inside him stronger than his fragile strength allowed.
The caretaker tilted the bottle again, slower this time, guiding it toward the tiny mouth.
The baby monkey tried once more, pulling in a small, shaky sip.
It wasn’t much, barely a taste, but it was a victory written across his tired eyes.
He paused to breathe, chest rising sharply as if the effort alone exhausted him deeply.
Still, he leaned forward again—because survival depended on these few drops that touched his tongue.
His thin fingers wrapped weakly around the bottle, more a plea than a grip.
Another sip came, then another, his throat moving slowly as the rich milk slid inside.
Each swallow brought strength back in the tiniest fragments, but enough to spark hope.
The caretaker whispered softly, encouraging him to keep trying, reminding him he wasn’t alone anymore.
Halfway through, he grew tired, eyes drooping, body sagging like a leaf losing its hold.
But hunger whispered louder than exhaustion, pulling him back to fight again.
He latched onto the bottle once more, determination shining through his fragile trembling.
By the final sip, his belly wasn’t full, but it was no longer empty.
He lifted his head weakly, a faint spark of life returning to his eyes.
Wrapped in warm cloth, he drifted into sleep—safe, fed, and one step closer to surviving another day.
