The baby monkey clung tightly to the rough bark of the tree, his tiny fingers trembling as the cold wind rustled through the canopy. His eyes, wide and wet, scanned the forest below, searching for a face he recognized—his mother’s. But she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was only silence and shadows that seemed to move with their own life.
He had fallen behind.
Just hours ago, the troop had moved swiftly through the forest, leaping from branch to branch, foraging for fruits and insects. The baby monkey, still learning the rhythm of the trees, had been slower, cautious, and unsure. He had slipped while crossing a thick vine bridge and tumbled down to a lower branch, hitting his side hard against the wood. The pain had made him cry out, a soft, pitiful whimper that echoed through the woods. But the troop didn’t hear him. Or if they did, they didn’t stop.
Now, the baby sat all alone, his left arm sore, bruised, and almost useless. He could barely move it. The pain wasn’t the worst part, though. The worst part was the fear—the bone-deep, paralyzing fear of being truly abandoned.
He was too small to climb back up the way he’d come. The branches above seemed impossibly high now, out of reach. The air around him grew colder as clouds thickened above the forest. Soon, rain began to fall—slow at first, then heavier, turning leaves into slick, slippery surfaces. The baby tried to curl into himself, wrapping his little arms around his knees, shivering. The water seeped through his thin fur, clinging to his skin and making the pain in his side feel worse.
Every crack of thunder made him jump.
He cried—softly at first, then louder, desperate. His small voice echoed through the trees, a tiny plea for help in a forest that didn’t seem to care. His tears mixed with the rain as he rocked gently back and forth. The loud sounds, the darkening sky, and the ache in his body made everything worse. The forest that had once felt like a playground now felt like a trap.
Hours passed.
The rain finally stopped, but the baby monkey didn’t move. He was too weak. His body was exhausted, and his belly was empty. He hadn’t eaten since morning. His lips were dry, and his head felt heavy. All around him, the forest began to stir again—birds chirping, insects buzzing—but he felt completely alone in it.
Then came another scare.
A sudden rustle in the bushes below made the baby freeze. His breath caught in his throat. Was it a snake? A wild dog? Something worse? He backed up against the trunk of the tree, every muscle tense, heart pounding so loud he thought it might burst. His eyes darted, searching. A shadow moved. He whimpered softly, pressing himself tighter against the bark.
It turned out to be nothing—just a bird flying low—but the fear lingered. His body had already been through so much. Each new sound felt like a threat. He didn’t feel safe. Not here. Not anymore.
He thought of his mother.
He remembered the way she used to groom him gently, running her fingers through his fur, or the way she used to carry him against her chest, his face tucked under her chin. Her scent used to calm him. Her warmth was his comfort. But now he only had the cold. The bark under him felt sharp. The wind still whispered threats through the trees.
As evening came, the baby’s cries became softer—more tired, more hopeless. He wasn’t sure if he was still calling for his mother or just trying to fill the silence. His body ached from the fall, and his stomach gnawed at itself from hunger.
Night crept in.
The sky turned black, and the jungle changed again. New noises filled the air—nocturnal hunters, low growls, and distant hoots. The baby’s eyes stayed wide open, too afraid to sleep. He curled into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, trying to feel like he wasn’t alone, trying to remember what safety felt like.
At one point, a bat flew close, startling him. He nearly lost his grip on the branch and gasped in terror. Pain shot through his bruised ribs. He whimpered again, curling tighter. His heart felt broken—not just from fear or pain, but from the loneliness.
He had never spent a night without his mother before.
Sometime after midnight, his strength gave out. He slumped against the trunk, breathing shallowly. His eyes fluttered closed now and then. Every time he blinked, he dreamed of her—his mother’s face looking down at him, smiling, holding him tight. He wanted that more than anything. More than food. More than sleep.
He cried in his sleep—soft whimpers of hurt and longing.
By morning, he looked weaker, his body limp, his fur matted with rain and tears. But somewhere in the early dawn, just as the forest lightened, there was movement above. Leaves rustled gently. A familiar call echoed through the trees.
The baby didn’t react at first.
Then he heard it again—a high-pitched trill, one only he knew. It was her. His mother.
His eyes blinked open. He lifted his head slowly. There she was, descending toward him, her face full of panic and worry. She rushed down the tree, faster than ever, and reached him with a whimper of her own. She gently pulled him into her arms, cradling him against her chest.
The baby didn’t have the strength to cry anymore, but he buried his face in her fur and let himself finally feel something else: relief.
His pain was still there. His body still hurt. But his heart felt a little lighter. He wasn’t alone anymore.
The forest hadn’t changed, but everything felt different now.
Because his mother was back.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt safe.
