The baby monkey sat on a low branch, its small body curled forward, arms hugging its own belly as if trying to quiet the emptiness inside. Its fur, normally soft and lively, was slightly ruffled, with tiny bits of dust clinging to it from earlier wanderings. Its big, round eyes seemed even larger than usual, glistening with a mix of hope and discomfort.
Hunger was not loud like a storm—it was slow, creeping in with quiet persistence. At first, it had only been a gentle tug, a small reminder that it was time to eat. But now, that tug had grown into a deep ache, one that made the baby’s movements sluggish. Even the thought of playing felt too tiring.
It looked around the forest with quick, searching glances. Leaves rustled above, and the distant calls of other monkeys carried through the trees, but there was no scent of food drifting on the air. The baby’s tiny nose twitched, trying to catch any hint of ripe fruit or fresh shoots. Each sniff brought nothing but the earthy scent of bark and dust.
Its little hands gripped the branch, claws scratching softly against the rough bark. The baby leaned forward, scanning the ground below. Sometimes fallen fruit could be found there—soft, sweet, and easy to eat—but today the forest floor seemed bare. The hunger inside twisted again, making it give a soft, pitiful chirp.
Every sound it made was small but full of longing. The baby tilted its head upward, searching for its mother. Usually, she would be the one to bring something delicious—a juicy fig, a tender leaf, a flower petal—but today she was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she was out foraging, or perhaps she was tending to the rest of the troop. Either way, the baby was alone with its empty belly.
It moved along the branch with slow, careful steps, peering into clusters of leaves. Once, it spotted a bud and plucked it quickly, but when it tried to chew, the taste was bitter. Its little face scrunched in disappointment, and it let the piece fall away. Hunger made it less picky, but even so, some things were just too unpleasant to swallow.
Down below, a rustle caught its attention. The baby froze, eyes fixed on the movement. A squirrel darted out, holding something small and green in its mouth. For a moment, the baby stared with longing, watching the squirrel disappear into the undergrowth. Even another creature’s meal was enough to make its mouth water.
It tried climbing higher, toward the sunlit tops of the trees where fruits sometimes grew. Each pull upward made its arms ache, but it didn’t stop. Hunger had a way of pushing it forward, no matter how tired it felt. At last, it reached a cluster of leaves and found a small, half-ripe fruit dangling among them.
Eagerly, it reached out, grasping the fruit with both hands. Its teeth sank in quickly, breaking the skin to release a faint, sweet scent. The taste wasn’t as rich as a fully ripened fruit, but it was enough to send a rush of relief through the baby. Juice dribbled down its chin as it chewed, and it made soft, satisfied sounds between bites.
But the fruit was small, and it disappeared far too quickly. The ache in the belly didn’t vanish—it merely softened for a moment. The baby licked its fingers, eyes scanning again for more. Hunger didn’t give up easily; it came back, reminding the little one that the search wasn’t over.
Still, that small taste gave it energy. The baby began to move again, determination replacing the earlier sluggishness. Its ears twitched at every sound, its eyes darting from branch to branch, searching for the next bite. Hunger had turned the quiet forest into a place full of possibilities—every leaf, every shadow, every movement could mean food.
And so, the tiny monkey pressed on, belly still aching but spirit unbroken, driven by the oldest instinct in the world: to keep going until it found enough to fill the emptiness inside.
