The baby monkey sat alone on the cold ground, his small body trembling as the forest moved around him. His mouth opened wide again and again, calling out with all the strength he had left. The sound was thin, broken, and full of pain.
“Ma… ma…”
But no answer came.
He lifted his head, eyes wet and shining, searching every branch, every shadow. His mother was supposed to be there. She was always there. Her warmth, her smell, her arms—those were his whole world. Now that world felt suddenly empty.
The baby cried louder.
His voice echoed through the trees, desperate and pleading. Each call carried hope, and each moment without a reply crushed that hope a little more. His tiny chest rose and fell quickly. His mouth stayed open, gasping between cries, as if calling for his mother was the only way he could keep breathing.
Earlier that day, everything had been normal. He had clung tightly to her fur as she moved through the forest. He remembered the rhythm of her steps, the safety of her chest. Then there was noise—branches shaking, monkeys scattering, fear rushing through the air. He had lost his grip.
Now he was alone.
The baby tried to stand, but his legs were weak. He stumbled forward, fell, then cried even harder. His calls turned angry, then frightened, then tired. Still, he refused to stop calling her name in his own baby way.
“Ma… ma… maa…”
His throat burned. Tears streamed down his face, soaking his fur. He hugged himself, rocking slightly, copying the way his mother used to rock him. It wasn’t the same. Nothing felt the same.
The forest did not care. Insects buzzed. Leaves fell. Birds flew overhead. Life continued, unaware that a tiny heart was breaking below.
As the sun moved lower, shadows stretched longer. The air grew cooler. The baby shivered. He cried again, louder than before, his voice cracking with exhaustion. Each call felt heavier, slower, but he kept going.
What if she was nearby and just couldn’t hear him?
What if this next call was the one she answered?
He climbed weakly onto a low root and lifted his face toward the trees, mouth wide open, calling with everything he had left. His sound was no longer strong—it was raw and painful, filled with fear and longing.
Still no answer.
His body began to shake from tiredness. His cries softened into broken sobs. He hiccupped, gasping for air, his small hands clutching at nothing. The silence after each call hurt more than the crying itself.
Night slowly approached.
The baby curled into a tight ball, but even then, he called for her. Softer now. Quieter. As if afraid to let her name disappear completely.
“Ma…”
A sound moved nearby.
The baby froze, hope flashing in his eyes. He lifted his head quickly and cried again, louder, forcing his tired body to respond.
But it wasn’t her.
An adult monkey appeared cautiously from the trees. She stopped when she saw him—small, shaking, crying, alone. She watched him call for a mother who did not come.
The baby saw her and cried harder, reaching out, confused. She wasn’t the right one. She didn’t smell right. But she was warm. She was alive.
The adult hesitated, then slowly moved closer. When she touched his back gently, the baby broke completely. His cries poured out, deep and shaking, his mouth opening wide as if trying to release all the pain inside.
He clung to her fur desperately, still calling softly between sobs.
“Ma… ma…”
She held him.
The baby did not stop missing his mother. That pain stayed. But in that moment, his calling was finally heard—not by the one he wanted most, but by someone who refused to let him cry alone in the dark.
And sometimes, survival begins with being heard, even when the answer comes too late. 💔🐒
