Three little monkeys lay close together, like small hopes born into a vast and unfamiliar world. Their tiny bodies touched, seeking warmth and comfort, as if instinct already understood that closeness meant safety. The forest around them was wide and endless, but in that small circle, they were not alone.
Their little eyes slowly opened and closed, heavy with sleep and newness. Each blink was careful, uncertain, as though the light itself was something to learn. In their eyes lived pure sincerity—no fear yet shaped by experience, no knowledge of danger—only trust and quiet curiosity.
One of them stretched a fragile hand, brushing against a sibling’s fur. The simple touch brought reassurance. Another made a soft sound, almost a sigh, and pressed closer. Their breathing rose and fell together, uneven but shared, a fragile rhythm of life just beginning.
They did not know the world they had entered was vast and unpredictable. They did not know the forest could be cruel or kind. For now, all they knew was warmth, the comfort of closeness, and the faint memory of a heartbeat that had protected them only moments before.
Above them, leaves shifted gently, letting filtered light fall across their faces. The light touched their small noses, their closed eyelids, their soft fur still marked by birth. Everything about them spoke of vulnerability—and of promise.
Each tiny chest rose with effort, each breath a quiet victory. They lay there like unanswered questions, like fragile dreams the forest had not yet tested. Life had only just begun to ask something of them.
And in that moment, before fear, before loss, before struggle, the three little monkeys rested together—small, sincere, and full of hope, unaware that their closeness was already their first strength.
