The baby monkey was very hungry, but still had not received any milk. It sat quietly near the base of a tree, its small body thin and tired, eyes dull with need. Hunger pressed deeply inside its tiny belly, making every breath feel heavier than it should.
Its mouth opened again and again, hoping instinctively for warmth and nourishment, but nothing came. Only dry air touched its lips. The baby swallowed hard, confused by the emptiness it felt. It did not understand why the milk was not there—only that it was missing.
The baby’s cries were weak now.
At first, it had called loudly, voice sharp and desperate. But hunger steals strength quickly. Now the sound that escaped its throat was thin and trembling, more like a whisper than a cry. Each call cost energy it barely had, yet the baby kept trying. Calling was all it knew.
Its small hands rested on the ground, fingers trembling slightly. The baby shifted its weight, trying to stand, but its legs wobbled and failed. It sat back down, breathing fast, chest rising and falling unevenly. Hunger made the world feel unsteady.
The forest felt very big.
Sounds echoed around the baby—leaves rustling, insects moving, distant calls from other animals. None of them were familiar enough to bring comfort. Each unfamiliar noise made the baby flinch, eyes widening briefly before lowering again in exhaustion.
The baby curled inward, hugging its own body tightly. This was not play. This was instinct. It was trying to preserve warmth, to protect what little energy it had left. Its tail lay limp behind it, no longer moving with curiosity or excitement.
The baby remembered milk.
It remembered warmth spreading through its body, remembered the steady heartbeat beneath its cheek, remembered the feeling of being full and safe. That memory made the hunger ache even more. The contrast was painful in a way the baby could not name.
Its head drooped forward.
For a moment, sleep tried to take over. But hunger would not allow rest. The baby stirred again, lifting its face slowly, eyes glossy with discomfort. Another cry escaped—short, broken, filled with need.
“I’m hungry,” the sound seemed to say.
“I’m still waiting.”
Time moved slowly. The sun shifted slightly overhead. Shadows crept across the ground. The baby remained there, waiting, growing weaker with each passing moment.
Its breathing became shallow. Each movement felt like too much effort. The baby leaned against the tree trunk now, using it for support, eyes half-closed. Hunger drained not just strength, but hope.
Still—some instinct refused to give up.
The baby lifted its head again, ears twitching. Somewhere deep inside, it believed milk would come. It had always come before. The baby clung to that belief, fragile but persistent.
A sound drifted faintly through the air.
The baby froze.
Its ears lifted higher. Its eyes opened wider, suddenly alert despite exhaustion. The sound came again—soft movement, familiar rhythm. Hope sparked weakly, like a small flame struggling against the wind.
The baby gathered everything it had left and cried once more.
This time, the sound was answered.
A figure moved quickly through the trees. The baby recognized the shape instantly, even before it was fully clear. Its body tried to rise again, failing, but its arms reached out blindly.
The mother monkey rushed forward.
The moment she saw her baby—small, weak, waiting—she stopped sharply, fear flashing through her eyes. She crossed the distance in seconds and lifted the baby into her arms, pulling it close to her chest.
The baby clung desperately.
Its cries returned suddenly, louder now, releasing hunger, fear, and relief all at once. The mother held the baby tightly, grooming gently, checking its face, its body, as if counting each breath.
Milk was offered soon after.
The baby latched on immediately, drinking hungrily, urgently. Each swallow brought warmth back into its body. The trembling slowed. The cries faded into soft sounds of relief.
The baby’s eyes closed as it drank, exhaustion finally giving way to comfort. Hunger loosened its grip. Safety returned.
The waiting was over.
The baby, once very hungry and still waiting for milk, was now held firmly in loving arms—fed, protected, and no longer alone.
