The jungle, in its usual rhythm, sang its morning tune — birds chirped high in the treetops, leaves rustled with the scampering of squirrels, and monkeys leaped playfully from branch to branch. Yet amidst the calm and order of nature, a sound pierced through the canopy with such intensity that the birds paused their songs and the forest seemed to hush for a moment.
It was the sound of a baby monkey’s scream — raw, high-pitched, and full of unbearable fear.
There, near the base of a thick fig tree, a baby monkey no older than a few weeks stood trembling. His tiny legs wobbled, and his arms reached out into the open, shaking with panic. His mouth was wide open as he screamed again, louder than before, so loud that it echoed through the trees and frightened nearby insects into flight.
His name was Kima — a curious, delicate little soul with soft golden-brown fur and round, expressive eyes. But those eyes, now flooded with tears, were wide with terror. He was calling, begging, crying out into the jungle, but for what exactly—safety, comfort, or simply his mother—he did not know how to explain. All he could do was scream.
Earlier that morning, Kima had been nestled safely on his mother’s back. The troop had moved through the trees as usual, foraging and playing as they followed the familiar paths. But the jungle, beautiful as it is, can also be unforgiving. A loud snap of a branch, a sudden flutter of wings, and the troop had scattered in alarm. In that chaos, Kima had slipped off.
No one had noticed.
He had landed softly on a thick patch of grass. At first, he thought it was a game. He looked around for his mother, expecting her to swing back and scoop him up. But the longer he waited, the more silence crept in. And then came the realization: he was alone.
The fear bloomed quickly.
He clung to the grass, looked left, then right, but all he could see were towering trunks and swaying leaves. The warmth of his mother’s chest was gone. The familiar hum of her breath, the gentle grip of her arms — all missing. And the jungle, for all its beauty, suddenly felt monstrous.
So he screamed.
Not once. Not twice. But over and over again, his tiny lungs filling and emptying with desperate cries. His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His heart beat fast, too fast, his breath short and frantic. His arms stretched out for someone who wasn’t there.
The sound of his cries carried through the trees. A few older monkeys in the distance paused, tilting their heads, recognizing the distress. But they were too far, and the jungle between them and Kima was thick and tangled. A hawk flew overhead, casting a shadow that made Kima cower and cry even louder.
Tears streaked down his little face. His nose ran. His voice strained. But no comfort came.
The wind rustled the leaves gently above him, but it didn’t soothe. A lizard scurried past, and he flinched as if it might harm him. The fear was overwhelming, all-consuming. The world was too big, and he was far too small.
Then he tripped.
His legs gave way beneath him, and he fell on his belly in the dirt. The shock of the fall made him cry out even louder — a scream so piercing that it could shatter the heart of anyone who heard it. He stayed there, face pressed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. His hands dug into the earth, his little back rising and falling with the rhythm of his sobs.
But far away, through the maze of branches and leaves, someone heard him.
His mother, Luma, had been searching frantically. Her eyes wild, her breathing ragged, she leaped through the forest, calling out, sniffing, scanning every corner. She had felt the moment he slipped from her back but had lost track of him in the panic. Since then, she had refused to stop searching.
And then she heard it.
That scream — that unmistakable voice of her child — cracked through the air again. Her heart froze. Her ears turned. She dropped from one branch to another with renewed urgency. Every cry from Kima was a trail of breadcrumbs leading her closer.
And then she saw him.
A small trembling shape on the forest floor, curled in fear, sobbing so hard his body shook.
She let out a cry of her own — a loud, trembling call. Kima’s head jerked up. For a second, his tear-filled eyes widened with confusion. Then he saw her.
A broken gasp escaped him, and he reached out his arms with everything he had left.
In seconds, she was at his side, scooping him up into her arms, holding him against her chest. He clung to her like his life depended on it, burying his wet face into her fur, his sobs still shaking him. Luma gently rocked him, licking his head, cooing softly, murmuring love only a mother could give.
Kima’s screams slowly quieted. His breath evened out, though the tremble in his body stayed a little longer.
He was safe now. Back in her arms. The fear was still inside him, but wrapped in her warmth, it slowly began to fade.
The jungle returned to its rhythm. Birds sang again. Leaves danced in the breeze. But beneath one tree, a mother monkey held her crying baby tight, whispering a promise in every heartbeat:
I will never let you go again.
