From the moment the sun rose, the caregiver was already there.
She sat beside the tiny baby monkey, watching every small movement, every breath. The baby lay curled against a soft cloth, his body thin and weak from days of hunger and sickness. His eyes opened only halfway, cloudy with exhaustion, yet they followed her wherever she moved.
She did not leave.
All morning, she stayed close, gently wiping the baby’s face with careful fingers. When he cried, even softly, she responded immediately. When he whimpered in his sleep, she leaned closer, whispering calming sounds, rocking him the way a mother would.
The baby needed everything.
He could not eat on his own. He could barely lift his head. His small hands trembled when he tried to cling to her fur. Each time he cried, it came from deep inside—weak, cracked cries that told a story of pain and fear.
The caregiver listened.
She prepared milk slowly, testing the warmth again and again so it would not hurt him. When she finally brought it to his mouth, she waited patiently, holding him upright, supporting his head with one hand.
At first, the baby cried in confusion.
Then instinct took over.
His lips found the nipple, and he sucked weakly. Milk dribbled down his chin. He paused often, breathing hard, but the caregiver did not rush him. She waited. She adjusted. She encouraged him gently.
Time passed.
The sun climbed higher, then slowly began to fall. Still, she stayed. While others moved away to rest or eat, she remained with the baby. Her body grew tired. Her arms ached from holding him for so long.
But she did not stop.
When the baby finished drinking, he cried again—not from hunger this time, but from fear. He clutched at her fur, afraid she might disappear like the one before her.
She understood.
She wrapped both arms around him, pressing him softly against her chest. The baby’s heartbeat raced at first, then slowly calmed as he felt warmth and steady breathing beneath him.
He slept.
Even then, the caregiver did not leave. She sat still, barely moving, afraid to wake him. Flies buzzed nearby, and she chased them away. The wind shifted, and she adjusted the cloth around his body to keep him warm.
When he woke crying again, she was already there.
The afternoon turned into evening. The sky dimmed. The forest grew quiet. Still, she watched him closely, checking his breathing, touching his belly to be sure it was not hard or cold.
She fed him again.
She cleaned him again.
She comforted him again.
The baby cried less now. His eyes opened a little wider. His grip grew slightly stronger. Small signs—but important ones.
Each tiny improvement made the caregiver pause, watching carefully, hope flickering in her tired eyes.
She had spent the whole day with him.
She would spend the night too.
As darkness fell, she curled her body protectively around the baby, shielding him from the cold and the unknown. The baby shifted closer, his face pressed against her chest, his mouth making soft sucking motions even in sleep.
He no longer cried.
Not because the pain was gone.
But because someone stayed.
The caregiver closed her eyes for the first time that day, exhaustion washing over her. Still, one arm remained firmly around the baby, ready to respond at the slightest sound.
She had given her time.
Her strength.
Her patience.
And the baby—once alone, once fading—now breathed softly in her care.
Sometimes, love is not loud.
Sometimes, it is simply staying.
