The afternoon sun was hot, pouring down like fire on the old stone wall that separated the human settlement from the forest beyond. The wall was rough, patched with moss, cracks, and sharp edges that made it dangerous even for the sure-footed. Yet, along its height, a small monkey mother appeared, her fur dusty brown with streaks of gray, her arms straining as she climbed carefully. Clutched tightly against her chest was her tiny baby, still fragile, with eyes too big for its small face.
The baby clung weakly, its small fingers curling into the mother’s fur. It was not yet strong enough to balance on its own, and so it trusted the mother’s hold completely. The wall was tall, and the ground below was hard—stones scattered, mixed with bits of dry earth. Every step, every grip mattered.
The mother monkey moved upward slowly. Her eyes darted left and right, scanning for any threat, but mostly she was focused on getting across. Her arm stretched, finding the next crevice in the wall, her legs trembling with effort. The baby squirmed, making soft cries, its tiny tail twitching nervously. The climb was not easy. The wall was dry and hot, burning the skin.
For a moment, the mother paused midway, catching her breath. She adjusted her baby against her chest. The baby made a small noise, pressing its face into her fur. She gave a soft grunt of reassurance and resumed climbing.
But then, disaster struck.
Her left arm, slick with sweat and strained from carrying both her own weight and the baby’s, slipped slightly against the wall. She tightened her grip, but in that instant, the baby’s small arm slid free from her embrace. Its body dangled in the air for a heartbeat, the tiny fingers scratching desperately at her fur but finding nothing to hold onto.
The mother’s eyes widened, a flash of panic shooting through her. She tried to catch her baby back against her chest, her arm swinging down in desperation. But gravity was merciless. The baby’s small form slipped fully from her grasp.
The world seemed to slow.
The little monkey tumbled downward, spinning in the air. Its cries filled the air—thin, frightened, heartbreaking. Then, with a heavy sound, its small head struck the stone at the bottom. The impact echoed. The sound was sharp, sickening, as though the very earth recoiled at the injury.
The baby lay motionless for a moment, its tiny chest barely rising. Then a weak cry came out, pained, broken, as blood began to seep from a wound on its head. Its fur darkened with the crimson, matting quickly. The baby’s arms twitched faintly, one leg kicking in confusion and agony.
Above, the mother monkey screeched, a raw, guttural cry filled with terror and grief. She scrambled down the wall recklessly, no longer cautious, her nails scratching the stone, her body nearly crashing into the surface as she descended. Her only thought was to reach her baby.
Within seconds she was at the ground. She rushed to the tiny, injured form and scooped it up into her arms. The baby was limp, its head lolling to one side, its eyes half-open but clouded. The wound was deep, swelling already, the blood trickling down and staining the mother’s chest fur.
She rocked the baby back and forth, whimpering, pressing her face against it, trying to rouse it with gentle nudges and licks. Her tongue cleaned the wound, but the blood tasted bitter, metallic. She could not stop it.
The baby let out another faint cry, thin as a whisper, before falling quiet again. Its breathing was shallow, rattling. Every breath sounded like a battle against pain. The mother’s panic grew; she turned her head frantically, as though looking for help in a world that would not give it.
Nearby, other monkeys gathered, drawn by the cries. They perched on the wall and the branches, watching silently. Some murmured soft alarm calls, others simply stared. None came closer. It was her tragedy, and they knew they could not change it.
The mother screamed at the sky, clutching the baby tighter, as though by holding it close she could shield it from suffering. She pressed her hand gently on the baby’s head, but every touch made the little body twitch in pain. She pulled her hand back quickly, frightened, then leaned forward to lick again.
The sun lowered slowly, the light dimming, but the world of the mother and her injured baby remained frozen in grief. She tried to carry the baby up again, lifting it with trembling arms, but the weight of its limpness made her stumble. She lowered herself back onto the ground, sitting hunched, rocking the baby like she had when it was first born.
Her mind, in its simple but powerful way, remembered the moment of birth—the wet, fragile newborn placed against her chest, the tiny heartbeat she had guarded since. She had promised to protect it, and yet now it lay bleeding, broken, because of a single slip. The guilt pressed heavy in her cries.
The baby shifted once more, weakly, eyes fluttering open for a second. Its tiny fingers moved, brushing against her fur. The mother froze, staring at that faint sign of life. She nuzzled the baby, her cries lowering into soft whimpers, as though urging it to hold on.
But the wound was grave. The swelling on its head grew larger, the blood still staining her fur. Its breathing grew slower, softer, each exhale sounding like it might be the last. The mother did not understand death in the way humans did, but she felt the closeness of loss. She felt it in her bones.
She held her baby tighter, refusing to let go, even as its small body grew colder in her arms.
Around them, the world continued. Birds flew overhead. The forest whispered with the evening breeze. But for the mother monkey, nothing else existed. Only her baby, her grief, and the wall that had taken what she loved most.
She cried out one last time, a sound that was not just an animal’s cry but a mother’s broken heart.
And she remained there, unmoving, holding her baby against her chest, the stain of blood on her fur, rocking back and forth under the fading light, as night began to fall.
