The sun had barely risen above the dense canopy of the forest when the softest, weakest cry echoed from a shadowed corner of a high tree. It was not the call of an adventurous young monkey or a playful morning chatter. It was frail. It was slow. It was full of pain.
The cry belonged to a baby monkey no older than a few weeks, a tiny creature with a pale pink face, soft graying fur, and eyes that no longer sparkled like they should. Her name was Chenda. Among the monkeys who lived near the mountain stream, her name meant “moonlight” — a symbol of quiet beauty. But lately, there had been no light left in her.
Chenda was born into hardship. Her mother, Srey Mao, was one of the older females in the troop. She had already raised four babies in the past, but Chenda was the most fragile. From the very beginning, the baby had been weak. She was slow to grasp, her cries were quieter, and her energy was always low. Still, Srey Mao loved her more than anything in the world. She cradled her like a treasure. She nuzzled her, carried her every step, and shielded her from the cold wind or burning sun.
But now, something much worse had taken hold. Something deeper. A sickness.
The First Signs
At first, it had been a slight change — Chenda had stopped suckling as strongly. Srey Mao noticed. She tried again and again to position her baby near her nipple, but Chenda’s tiny mouth barely opened. Her breath was short, shallow.
“She’s just tired,” Srey Mao whispered to herself in her own motherly instinct — because believing otherwise would have shattered her.
But a few hours later, Chenda vomited a thin white liquid. Her body twitched. Then came the fever.
Srey Mao grew desperate. She took Chenda to the warmest rocks when the sun rose. She cleaned her constantly with her tongue, licking her fur gently to try and lower the fever. Other mothers in the troop noticed and gave space, sensing something was terribly wrong. The usual playfulness in the troop gave way to silence when Srey Mao passed by — her baby limp on her chest.
A Mother’s War
Srey Mao stopped eating herself. Her priority became her child. If she found a fruit, she would try to chew it and then gently push the softened pieces toward Chenda’s mouth. But the baby didn’t open her lips. Sometimes she coughed — a dry, helpless sound — and then whimpered softly, as if apologizing for not being able to eat.
Three days passed like this. Each morning, Srey Mao woke up hoping it had been a bad dream. Each time she saw her baby’s sunken eyes, her hope died a little more.
Other monkeys would sometimes come closer — older females who had also been mothers. One of them, a kind-hearted aunt named Dara, approached and touched Srey Mao’s back gently. Her eyes met hers, full of silent understanding. She had lost a baby once too.
But Srey Mao wasn’t ready to let go.
She climbed down the tree and went to the muddy banks of the stream, where medicinal leaves sometimes grew. She chewed on a bitter one, then kissed Chenda’s lips, trying to pass on the healing. But again, nothing.
Chenda’s breathing became even slower.
One Million Pity
The forest seemed to know what was happening.
Birdsong quieted. Even the monkeys played less. The leaves barely rustled, as if in mourning.
There is something haunting in watching a baby fight to live but slowly lose the strength to do so. Chenda no longer cried. Her eyes remained half-open, dull, unfocused. Her once tiny fingers that had grasped her mother’s fur now hung loosely.
The troop moved to a new tree for better fruit, but Srey Mao refused to go. She stayed behind with her baby, holding her tightly.
The elders knew it was near the end. No baby who had refused food this long could survive. Chenda’s bones were now sharp beneath her skin. Her fur had lost color. Her belly shrank. Her ribs showed.
And yet… Srey Mao kept whispering to her.
She sang the same humming song she had always sung when nursing her. A soft rise and fall of monkey murmurs — a lullaby older than any language. It was her way of saying, “Please stay. Don’t leave me. Just one more hour, baby.”
The Last Night
That night was cold.
A light rain had started, and while most of the monkeys curled together for warmth, Srey Mao sat alone on a thick branch, using her arms, tail, and chest to form a cocoon around her fading child.
Chenda’s breathing had turned into a faint wheeze. Her lips were pale. Her eyes barely moved anymore. But her ears still worked — and that mattered.
Because just before midnight, Srey Mao began to speak to her. Not in words, but in memories. She made soft sounds, as if reminding her daughter of the day she was born — when her tiny hand grabbed her mother’s thumb. Of the day she saw her first butterfly. Of how she once squeaked in surprise when a dragonfly landed on her nose. The tiniest memories, the sweetest pieces of a short life.
“You were here,” she whispered in her own way. “You were real. You mattered.”
And for one last second, Chenda opened her eyes — just slightly. Her pupils found her mother’s face. She made one tiny, soft sound.
Then she exhaled. And didn’t inhale again.
A Silent Morning
When the sun rose, Srey Mao was still holding her.
Some monkeys had already come back, sensing the change. They didn’t touch. They just sat nearby. Watching.
Srey Mao didn’t cry — monkeys don’t cry like humans. But her body trembled as she gently touched her baby’s chest again and again, hoping for breath. Nothing.
She nuzzled her. Licked her one last time. Then curled herself tighter, unwilling to put her down.
For hours, she sat like that.
The baby who had been too sick to eat, too weak to cry, was finally still. A peace, yes. But a painful one.
The Letting Go
By late afternoon, Srey Mao finally stood.
Her hands, shaky. Her fur soaked with both rain and sweat. Her eyes glassy.
She walked to a quiet corner of the forest — a place where mothers sometimes left what they loved most when they no longer had a choice. There, beneath a wide tree root, she laid Chenda down gently.
She didn’t walk away immediately.
She sat beside her baby. Picked a yellow leaf. Placed it on her tiny chest.
Then she pressed her forehead to hers.
And walked away.
Aftermath
For days, Srey Mao was not herself.
She didn’t join the group. She didn’t eat much. She sat alone. Sometimes grooming herself in slow, distracted motions. Other monkeys kept close but gave her space. They knew.
A week later, a new baby monkey was born to another mother. Life went on. Leaves fell, rivers flowed, the sun shone again.
But deep in that forest, under a shaded root and covered with soft moss, rested the memory of a baby who never truly lived — and yet touched a world with her tiny breath.
Chenda never played, never climbed, never danced through the branches like others.
But she was loved. She was held every moment. She was protected.
She mattered.
And a mother, once full of hope, still sometimes sits at the foot of the tree — looking at the sky, humming a song only her baby knew.
Because for her, there are a million pities.
And only one Chenda.
