The baby monkey screamed while staying alone, its small voice echoing through the empty forest.
The scream was loud at first—sharp and desperate. It came from deep fear, not anger. The baby didn’t understand why it was alone. It only knew that the warmth, the arms, the safety it needed were gone. Each scream was a call for help, a plea carried by instinct.
Its tiny body shook.
The baby sat hunched on the ground, hands clenched tightly, eyes wide and wet. It turned its head again and again, searching for movement, for a familiar shape that never appeared. Every sound in the forest made it scream harder—rustling leaves, cracking twigs, distant calls.
Fear filled everything.
The baby tried to move closer to where it felt safety should be. It crawled a little, then stopped, screaming again as panic overwhelmed it. Being alone made the world feel enormous and dangerous. The ground felt cold. The air felt heavy.
The screams slowly changed.
They became uneven. Broken. The baby’s throat hurt. Its chest rose and fell quickly, then slowed. Screaming took strength, and strength was running out. Still, the baby screamed again—because silence felt even more frightening.
Tears streaked its small face.
It wrapped its arms around itself, rocking slightly, as if pretending it was being held. The screams softened into loud cries, then into hoarse, trembling sounds. Fear mixed with exhaustion, but the need for comfort was stronger than the tiredness.
The forest did not answer.
No mother came.
No arms reached out.
Only echoes returned.
Eventually, the baby’s screams faded into weak sobs. Its head dropped forward. Breathing slowed, but the fear did not fully leave. Even in silence, its body stayed tense, ready to cry again at the smallest sound.
Being alone is terrifying for a baby.
Screaming is all it knows how to do.
It screams to survive.
It screams to be found.
And in that lonely moment, every scream meant the same thing:
“I need someone.
Please don’t leave me alone.”
