The baby monkey lay quietly on a soft pile of leaves beneath a tall forest tree. His body was very small, but his mouth looked strangely big against his thin, tired face. When he opened it, it wasn’t to laugh or chatter like other babies. It was to breathe, slowly and painfully, as sickness weighed heavily on his tiny chest.
His name was Niko.
Niko had not always been this way. Just a few days earlier, he had been climbing low branches, opening his big mouth to squeak loudly for milk and attention. His mouth was famous in the troop. When Niko cried, the whole forest seemed to hear him. But now that same mouth stayed open because breathing had become hard, not because he wanted to make noise.
His mother sat close, her arms wrapped tightly around him. She was exhausted. Her eyes were red from worry, and her fur was rough from many sleepless nights. She gently touched Niko’s face, wiping away saliva that slipped from the corner of his big mouth. Every small sound he made caused her heart to tighten with fear.
Niko’s stomach hurt. His body felt hot, then cold, then hot again. He didn’t understand why he felt so weak. He tried to lift his head, but it fell back softly against his mother’s arm. His mouth opened wide as he gasped, and a quiet, broken cry escaped.
The forest, usually loud and busy, seemed to slow down around them. Other monkeys watched from a distance, silent and worried. No one teased Niko’s big mouth now. No one laughed. They all understood that this was serious.
His mother tried everything she knew. She searched for soft fruit, chewing it carefully before placing it gently into his mouth. Niko tried to swallow, but his body refused. The food slipped out, and his mouth stayed open, trembling.
She rocked him slowly, humming a low, comforting sound. It was the same sound she had made when he was born. Back then, his big mouth had opened wide with a strong cry, full of life and promise. Remembering that made her chest ache.
As night approached, the air grew cooler. Niko shivered. His breathing became faster, his mouth opening wider as if he were trying to catch invisible air. His mother pulled him closer, pressing her warm body against his fragile one, hoping her heat and love could fight the sickness.
Niko’s eyes fluttered open and closed. He looked at his mother, trying to focus. He wanted to smile, but he was too tired. Instead, his mouth opened again, and a soft sound came out—half cry, half breath.
“I’m here,” his mother whispered softly, though he could not understand the words. “I won’t leave you.”
The night was long. Insects sang quietly. The moon rose and watched over the sick baby. Sometimes Niko’s breathing slowed, and his mother panicked, gently rubbing his chest. Sometimes it sped up again, and she held him tighter.
When the first light of morning touched the forest, Niko was still alive. Weak, very weak, but alive. His mouth was still open, his body still heavy with sickness, but his tiny fingers curled slightly into his mother’s fur.
It was a small movement, but it filled her with hope.
She lifted her face to the rising sun, silent tears falling. The fight was not over, but neither was love. As long as Niko breathed through that big mouth of his, she would stay, protect, and believe.
Because even the smallest, sickest baby monkey deserves a chance to survive. 🐒💔
