The forest was quiet, but one sound pierced through the silence — a tiny, trembling cry. A baby monkey, barely a few weeks old, sat curled under a thick root, his small body shivering. His fur was damp from the morning dew, and his wide eyes were filled with fear. He called out again, a high-pitched, desperate wail that echoed through the trees.
He didn’t know where his mother had gone. One moment she was holding him, then suddenly, a loud rustle, a panic — and she vanished into the trees. Now, alone, he clutched his tiny fingers into the dirt, his belly empty, his heart pounding like a drum. Every leaf that moved made him flinch. Every shadow made him whimper louder.
His little voice cracked as he cried louder, louder still, hoping someone would come. He didn’t understand what had happened. He only knew he needed her — her warmth, her touch, her milk. He pressed his face to the ground and cried until his throat was raw. His tiny chest rose and fell with each frightened breath.
A big branch above swayed. The baby jolted, eyes wide with terror. Was it danger? A predator? He tried to scoot backward, but his weak legs gave way, and he collapsed, trembling in the mud. He cried even more, a pitiful sound filled with loneliness.
Birds watched silently from the treetops. A squirrel paused on a nearby branch, but no one helped. He was just a scared baby, too little to be a threat, too weak to protect himself.
As the sun began to rise, the light hit his fur, but there was no comfort in its warmth. He was still alone, still crying — not just out of fear, but from something deeper: heartbreak. His cries faded into soft sobs, broken, exhausted. His eyes fluttered, too tired to stay open, but still he cried — hoping, praying his mother would come back.
But the forest gave no answer. Only silence returned his cries.
