Deep in the humid forest of the eastern hill, where the air smelled of moss and the cries of wild birds filled the canopy, lived a small troop of monkeys. Among them was a tender mother named Mina and her curious little baby, Toto. Toto was only a few months old—small, brown-furred, and full of life. His bright eyes always glimmered with wonder at everything around him: the leaves, the wind, and even the ants crawling along the bark.
Mina loved her baby more than anything. She carried him close to her chest every day, wrapping her arms tightly whenever danger approached. In the mornings, she groomed his tiny face and whispered little grunts of affection, and in the evenings, they slept curled together under the branches, their warmth shared against the cool jungle breeze.
But that morning was different. The sun shone fiercely through the trees, making the forest shimmer with gold and heat. The monkeys were restless, moving quickly between the trees to find shade. The babies chased one another, jumping from one low branch to another. Toto, always eager to copy the older ones, wanted to explore everything he saw.
He noticed a strange hollow in a tall old tree—a dark hole where perhaps a squirrel or a bird once lived. It was not very big, just enough for a small creature to hide inside. Toto’s eyes widened with curiosity. He climbed closer, ignoring his mother’s gentle calls.
“Toto,” Mina chattered softly, sensing trouble. “Come back, little one.”
But Toto was fascinated. The hollow seemed mysterious, cool, and dark. He wanted to know what was inside. He pressed his small hands on the bark and leaned his head toward the hole. His mother watched nervously from a branch above.
He sniffed. Nothing came out. The hollow looked empty.
Still, the baby monkey wanted to peek deeper.
Slowly, he pushed his head inside.
At first, it slipped through easily. But then, as he tried to pull back out—his soft fur brushed against the edges of the hollow, and his small ears caught tightly on the wood. He tugged. It didn’t move.
He tried again, panicking now. His little arms flailed, pulling and twisting. The bark was rough, and the more he struggled, the tighter the hollow seemed to grip his tiny head.
He was stuck.
Mina saw it happen. She screamed—a sharp, terrified cry that made the whole troop turn toward her. She leaped down to her baby, landing on the trunk, grabbing his body. She pulled gently at first, thinking it would come free. But Toto’s head wouldn’t budge.
He whimpered, his cries muffled inside the tree. His small body shook as he struggled for air.
Mina’s heart pounded in panic. She pulled harder, her claws scraping the bark. The baby squealed in pain. His neck twisted awkwardly as his mother tried to free him. The other monkeys gathered around, confused and frightened. They could hear the baby’s muffled cries echoing from the hollow.
The troop leader, an older male named Rono, climbed closer. He examined the hollow and grunted, realizing how bad it was. The hole was narrow, and the wood inside was hard and dry. The baby’s small head was jammed tightly, and his neck was at a terrible angle.
Mina screamed again, wrapping her arms around Toto’s body, rocking back and forth. She didn’t know what to do. Her instincts told her to help, to keep him safe—but nothing she did worked. She licked his back, tried to calm him, whispered soft sounds, but Toto kept crying, his voice weaker each time.
The forest fell silent around them. Even the birds had stopped singing.
Mina tried once more. She tugged gently, then harder. Toto’s small legs kicked helplessly. She pulled until his fur began to scrape off, until blood stained the bark. But the tree would not release him.
Rono tried to help. He bit and clawed at the wood, trying to widen the opening, but it was too thick. The wood splintered slightly, but not enough. Every time they tried to move him, the baby cried out in agony. His head was wedged deep, and the friction was tearing the skin around his face.
Hours passed. The forest sun began to tilt westward, casting long shadows through the branches. Mina hadn’t moved from the spot. Her arms were trembling, her face wet with tears. She looked into the hollow, but could only see a bit of her baby’s ear and the blood around it. His cries were now faint, slow, and pitiful.
She tried to feed him a leaf, thinking maybe he was hungry, but he could not open his mouth properly. His breathing had grown shallow. The sound was heartbreaking—a weak gasping that broke between sobs.
Other mothers from the troop came and sat nearby, chattering softly, watching helplessly. No one knew how to help. Nature had trapped the little one in a cruel way—no predator, no fall, no attack—just a small moment of curiosity that turned into tragedy.
Mina’s heart broke with every minute that passed. She called softly to her baby, her voice trembling.
“Toto… please… come back to mama.”
He didn’t answer.
As the evening came, darkness began to fall over the jungle. The cicadas started to sing, and the wind grew cooler. Mina still stayed there, hugging her baby’s limp body. His legs had stopped moving. His small tail hung down lifelessly.
Rono came closer again. He sniffed at the baby and looked at Mina with quiet sorrow. The troop leader made a low, deep sound—one that meant the truth no mother wanted to hear. The baby was gone.
Mina screamed again, a sound that echoed through the forest. It was a scream of despair, pain, and love all mixed into one haunting cry. She hit the tree, scratching and biting at the bark, as if punishing it for stealing her child. Blood stained her mouth as splinters pierced her lips, but she didn’t stop.
She tried to pull Toto one last time, using all her strength. She yanked his body, but the lifeless little form didn’t resist. There was only silence. Finally, with one last desperate pull, the body came loose—but it was limp, head bruised, neck twisted unnaturally.
Mina held him in her arms, trembling. His eyes were half open, glassy and still. His soft fur was sticky with blood. She rocked him against her chest, whimpering softly, trying to warm him up. She didn’t understand death—only that her baby was cold and quiet and wouldn’t cry anymore.
She licked his face, over and over, cleaning the blood. She thought maybe he would wake up if she kept him close enough, warm enough. She kissed his small hands and pressed her nose against his. But there was no breath left in him.
The troop stayed around her, watching silently. No one dared to come close. The forest seemed to mourn with her. The wind rustled the leaves like whispers of grief.
That night, Mina didn’t sleep. She held Toto’s tiny body the whole time. When the rain came after midnight, she covered him with her arms, shielding him as she had always done. Her body shook from cold and heartbreak. The raindrops washed away the blood from his fur, but not the pain from her heart.
By morning, the forest smelled fresh again. The sun returned, and the troop began to move, slowly, quietly. But Mina didn’t follow. She still sat beneath the tree that had taken her baby. She looked up at the hollow—silent now—and her eyes were empty.
Hours later, she began to move again. She carried Toto’s body with her, pressed tightly to her chest, just as she had when he was alive. She walked slowly through the forest, refusing to let him go. Every few minutes she stopped, grooming his fur gently, licking his hands, calling his name softly.
Other monkeys watched from a distance. Some young ones followed her out of curiosity, but the elders kept them back. They understood her grief. They had seen mothers like her before—mothers who couldn’t accept that their babies were gone.
For two more days, Mina carried the tiny body. The fur grew stiff, the little face pale. But she didn’t care. She still groomed him, still tried to nurse him, still kissed his forehead. Whenever another monkey came too close, she screamed and held him tighter.
The troop moved on to another part of the forest, but Mina stayed behind, near the hollow tree. She made a nest of leaves under it and placed Toto beside her. When night fell again, she curled around him protectively, just like before. But the warmth she searched for never came back.
On the third day, Rono came to her once more. He grunted gently, urging her to move on. The forest was changing, and danger was near. But Mina refused to leave. She kept her eyes on her baby’s still form. Her body was thin now, her fur dull and messy.
Finally, in the late afternoon, when the light filtered through the leaves in soft gold, she lifted Toto one last time. She looked at his face and made a low, trembling sound—a goodbye that only a mother could make. Slowly, she laid him in a small hole beside the tree and covered him with dry leaves. She touched his head one last time with her nose.
Then she sat beside the mound, her body shaking with quiet sobs. She didn’t move for a long time.
The troop waited from a distance. When the wind rustled through the forest again, Mina finally turned away. She climbed a nearby tree, slowly, her movements weak and heavy. She looked back once more at the hollow where her baby had been trapped—the cruel, silent place that had stolen her joy.
Her eyes were wet, but her face was calm now. She gave one last sound—a soft, broken cry—and then she disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
The tree stood silent again. The hollow remained there, dark and deep, as if nothing had happened. Only a few drops of blood on the bark told the story of the tragedy that had taken place.
Days later, the forest returned to its rhythm. Birds sang again, insects buzzed, and new baby monkeys played on the branches nearby. But Mina was never the same. She stayed quiet, always keeping to herself. Sometimes she sat for hours on high branches, staring into the distance as if searching for something lost forever.
And sometimes, when the wind blew softly through the trees, she would reach out her hand to the air, as though feeling her baby’s fur again. She would hold that invisible memory against her chest, eyes closed, heart trembling with grief.
The jungle moves on, but a mother’s sorrow does not fade. Mina carried it with her—everywhere, always.
She had lost her world to a small, careless moment of curiosity. And every time she passed a hollow tree, she turned her face away.
The forest, though full of life, held this one quiet story within its heart—a story of a baby monkey’s last cry, a mother’s endless love, and the silent cruelty of fate.
