The orphaned baby sat alone on a low tree branch, his small body curled tightly as if trying to protect himself from the world. His eyes were wide, searching, always searching, but the face he needed never appeared. The forest moved around him—leaves rustling, insects buzzing, birds calling—but none of it felt alive to him.
Something was wrong.
He did not understand the word orphan, but he felt its weight. His mother was gone. Not just out of sight. Gone in a way that made the air feel empty and cold. He cried for her at first, soft little calls filled with hope. When that didn’t work, he cried louder, his mouth opening wide, his voice shaking the branches.
Still, no answer came.
His tiny hands gripped the bark tightly. Hunger twisted inside his stomach, sharp and painful. He had never fed himself before. He had never needed to. His mother had always been there—warm, steady, familiar. Now, his body trembled as he waited for help that did not arrive.
Hours passed.
The baby’s cries grew weaker. Not because he felt better, but because crying took energy, and he was running out of it. His eyes burned with tears, his throat sore. He sucked on his fingers, confused and desperate, hoping for comfort that wasn’t there.
Other animals passed nearby. Some looked. Some paused. None came close. The baby watched them with quiet fear. Everything felt too big, too fast, too loud. Without his mother, the forest no longer felt safe.
As the sun climbed higher, the heat pressed down on his small body. He felt dizzy. His mouth stayed open as he breathed quickly, trying to cool himself. Flies buzzed nearby, drawn by the salt of his tears. He swatted weakly at them.
Why wasn’t she coming back?
The baby leaned against the trunk, his head drooping. His body felt heavy, like it was sinking into the branch. His mind drifted in and out, mixing memories of warmth with the harsh present. He remembered being held. Being cleaned. Being fed. Each memory hurt more than the last.
When the sky began to change color, shadows stretching across the forest floor, the baby whimpered softly. Night frightened him. Night meant cold. Night meant darkness filled with sounds he didn’t know.
He cried again—one last effort. The sound was thin and broken, but it carried his need into the trees.
This time, someone heard.
A nearby adult monkey stopped and turned. She was not his mother. She smelled different. She looked at him carefully, her expression cautious but concerned. Slowly, she approached, making soft sounds, trying not to scare him.
The baby flinched at first. He was afraid. But when she reached out and touched his back gently, something inside him broke. He cried again, pressing his small body toward warmth.
She hesitated only a moment before pulling him close.
The baby clung to her fur tightly, sobbing, his body shaking with relief and exhaustion. He did not know if this comfort would last. He only knew that for now, he was not alone.
The forest grew quiet again as night settled in.
The orphaned baby still missed his mother. That pain did not disappear. But wrapped in unfamiliar arms, his breathing slowly steadied.
What was happening to the orphaned baby?
He was surviving—one moment, one breath, one small act of kindness at a time.
