Baby Maoming sat outside the old wooden doorway, tiny arms wrapped tightly around his knees, crying softly as the hours slowly passed. Morning sunlight turned to noon heat, but he never moved far. He kept staring toward the trees, believing his mom would appear at any moment. Each sound—rustling leaves, footsteps, distant calls—made him lift his head with hope, only to lower it again in disappointment.
He was too young to understand why she hadn’t returned. All he knew was that yesterday, she held him close, and today he was alone. His little body shivered from fear, but he didn’t dare leave the spot where he had last seen her. Tears streaked his dusty face, drying and forming new ones again and again. He cried until his voice became hoarse, then cried more when the loneliness grew heavier.
As the afternoon shadows stretched longer, Maoming wandered a few steps, searching the field, calling out between broken sobs. His legs were weak, and sometimes he stumbled, but he pushed himself up each time. He thought if he tried harder, maybe she would hear him. But the forest stayed silent. No familiar footsteps came. No warm arms reached out for him. He finally sat again, hugging himself as if trying to replace the comfort he had lost.
A rescuer walking nearby heard his faint, heartbreaking cries. When they approached, Maoming looked up with red, tired eyes but didn’t run. He was too weak and too desperate. The gentle hands lifted him slowly, wrapping him in soft cloth. For a moment he resisted, calling once more for his mom, but then he collapsed into the warmth, exhausted by a full day of waiting.
Though his mother never returned, Maoming’s tears began to ease. Inside safe arms, he finally felt hope again.
