The forest was quiet that morning, unusually quiet. Mist clung low to the ground, drifting between the roots like pale ghostly fingers. Near a fallen tree, barely visible beneath a cluster of ferns, lay a tiny baby monkey. His fur was patchy, his ribs showing through his skin, and his breaths came out in small, weak shivers.
His name—unknown to the world—was what he had left of his mother’s memory. She had carried him for weeks, keeping him warm, feeding him, protecting him. But one stormy night, when predators roamed and lightning split the sky, the troop scattered. His mother became injured during their escape. She tried to continue carrying him, but her strength faded. In her final moments, desperate, she placed him under the ferns, hoping he would live, hoping the troop might return for him.
They never did.
Now he lay alone, helpless and starving.
The morning sun rose slowly, warming the tops of the trees but barely touching the little abandoned figure on the forest floor. Every breath he took was thin, shaky, like a tiny whisper begging the world not to forget him. His stomach, empty for days, pinched painfully. His eyes, large and sunken, blinked weakly as he tried to stay awake.
A fly landed on his cheek. He tried to lift a hand to brush it away, but his arm barely moved. He whimpered, the sound so small and faint it melted into the rustle of leaves.
Hours passed.
A group of birds hopped nearby, pecking at the ground. A squirrel paused to look at him, tilting its head curiously, but scurried away. The forest was full of life, yet none of it stopped long enough to understand that a life was fading right in front of it.
The baby monkey tried to crawl forward. He managed to move only a few centimeters before collapsing again. His body was simply too weak. His bones pressed against his thin skin, and his fur, once soft, was now dirty and clumped from the cold night dew.
He let out another small cry, softer this time, almost silent.
The world did not answer.
Then, late in the afternoon, a rustling sound came from the bushes. A troop of monkeys—different from the one he was born into—was passing through. They jumped across the branches above, chattering, playing, grooming one another. None of them looked down.
Except one.
A young female monkey named Sima paused on a branch. Something below caught her attention—a faint movement, like a leaf trembling even though no wind blew.
She climbed down carefully, her curiosity drawing her closer. When she pushed aside the ferns, her eyes widened. There, curled like a sick little shadow, was the abandoned baby.
He blinked at her.
Sima froze. She had never had a baby of her own. She didn’t know what to do. But the sight of the tiny creature—so fragile, so thin, barely able to breathe—made her heart ache. She reached out and touched his head gently.
The baby whimpered.
Something inside her awakened.
Sima picked him up slowly, as if afraid he might break apart in her hands. His body was so light, too light—like picking up a bundle of dried leaves instead of a living infant. She groomed his face, wiping away dirt and tiny insects. He leaned his head weakly into her chest, desperate for warmth.
The troop leader noticed her absence and climbed down to see what delayed her. When he saw the sick infant, he gave a low grunt. Some of the monkeys backed away. Others approached, sniffing, curious but unsure.
Sima held the baby close, refusing to put him down.
She groomed him again, licked his forehead, and offered him her chest though she had no milk. The baby tried to suckle, but there was nothing. Still, he clung to her, tiny fingers trembling.
The troop leader hesitated. An abandoned infant was a burden—one that could slow the troop, attract predators, or drain a mother’s strength. But there was something in Sima’s eyes: determination, pleading, a raw instinct demanding she be allowed to try.
With a soft grunt of permission, the leader turned away.
Sima climbed back into the trees, holding the sick infant like her own child.
That night, she kept him against her body for warmth, grooming him again and again. His breathing remained shallow. His body remained frighteningly light. But he had warmth now—warmth he had not felt since losing his mother.
He slept with his face pressed into her fur, his tiny hands gripping with the last strength he had.
Sima whispered soft motherly sounds into the darkness, promising him he was no longer alone.
And for the first time in days, the little abandoned baby monkey did not cry.
