The rain had been falling for hours, heavy and cold, soaking the forest until every branch dripped and every leaf shivered. The sky was dark, pressed low by thick clouds, and the wind carried the storm deep into the trees. High above the flooded ground, an exhausted mother monkey named Nila clung to a narrow branch, her body trembling.
Pressed against her chest were three tiny babies.
They were barely weeks old. Their fur was thin, their bodies weak, and the cold rain made them shake uncontrollably. One cried softly, the sound barely rising above the storm. Another hid its face in Nila’s fur. The smallest could only cling, its fingers tight but unsteady.
Nila’s arms burned with pain.
She had been holding this position for so long that she could no longer feel her hands properly. Her shoulders ached. Her legs shook. Every breath felt heavy, as if the storm itself had settled inside her chest.
But she did not loosen her grip.
Another burst of rain slammed into her back, running down her spine in icy streams. Nila turned her body slightly, angling herself so the rain hit her instead of the babies. She lowered her head and curved her back, creating a small shelter with her own body.
Her teeth chattered violently.
The babies whimpered, sensing her exhaustion. Nila responded with soft, rhythmic sounds, the same ones she used when they were frightened at night. She pressed her cheek against theirs, sharing what little warmth she had left.
“I’m here,” her touch promised.
“Hold on.”
A strong gust of wind shook the tree. The branch dipped suddenly, making the babies squeal in terror. Nila tightened her grip instantly, claws digging into wet bark. Her tail wrapped around the branch like a rope, anchoring her trembling body.
Pain shot through her arms.
For a moment, darkness crept into the edges of her vision. She blinked hard, fighting dizziness. She could not rest. Not now. Not while the rain still fell and her babies needed her.
Her body screamed for relief.
Still, she stayed.
The storm showed no mercy. Thunder cracked overhead, loud enough to make the babies cry out together. Lightning flashed, turning the world white for a heartbeat. Nila flinched—but she never moved away from her babies.
Instead, she lowered herself further, pressing her chest and arms fully over them. Rain soaked her fur completely, weighing her down, stealing her heat. Her muscles shook uncontrollably now, exhaustion dragging at every movement.
She felt herself weakening.
But then—one small hand touched her chin.
The smallest baby reached upward, its tiny fingers curling weakly into her fur. It made a soft sound, barely more than a breath. Trust. Comfort. Need.
Something fierce rose inside Nila.
She gathered the babies tighter, pulling them closer into the warmth of her chest. She groomed their wet faces gently, one by one, even as her own vision blurred with fatigue.
Time stretched endlessly.
Then, slowly, the rain softened.
The thunder rolled farther away. The wind eased its grip on the trees. The pounding drops became quieter, lighter, until they were only a steady whisper on the leaves.
Nila lifted her head weakly.
Her body sagged with exhaustion. Her arms felt like stone. But beneath her, the babies were still breathing—warm, alive, safe.
Relief washed through her so suddenly that she nearly collapsed.
Moments later, shapes moved through the branches. Members of the troop appeared, drawn by the fading storm and Nila’s faint calls. They rushed to her side, grooming her soaked fur, helping steady her shaking body.
Nila finally allowed herself to rest.
She leaned back against the tree, still holding her babies close as dawn’s pale light broke through the clouds. The forest glistened with rain, quiet and renewed.
She had used her last strength.
She had given everything she had left.
And because of that, her three babies lived.
