The little monkey didn’t know anything about the world yet. It didn’t understand danger, loss, or silence. It didn’t know why the warmth that once surrounded it had suddenly disappeared. All it knew was that it was alone.
Its tiny body lay curled on the damp forest floor, half-covered by fallen leaves. Just hours ago, it had been pressed tightly against its mother’s chest, wrapped in her fur, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. That sound had been safety. That warmth had been life itself.
Now there was only cold.
The little monkey screamed.
The sound was thin and trembling, breaking through the quiet of the forest. It cried again and again, not because it understood what had happened, but because crying was the only language it knew. Each scream was a call for the warmth and security its mother had always provided.
Its small hands stretched outward, fingers opening and closing blindly in the air. It crawled clumsily over wet leaves and tangled roots, its movements weak and unsteady. Every inch felt heavy. Every breath came with effort.
It reached its mother’s body and pressed its face into her fur. The smell was familiar. The shape was familiar. But something was wrong. The warmth was gone. The gentle rise and fall of her chest had stopped.
Confused, the little monkey nudged her again, whimpering softly. It waited. Nothing happened.
Fear surged through its tiny body.
The little monkey screamed louder, its voice cracking with desperation. The sound echoed faintly among the trees, but no answer came. Birds fluttered above and flew away. The forest continued breathing, indifferent to the small tragedy unfolding beneath its canopy.
A breeze brushed against the baby’s damp fur, making it shiver violently. Without its mother’s arms to shield it, the cold felt sharper, more frightening. The little monkey curled into itself, trying to trap what little warmth it had left.
But instinct pulled it forward again.
It lifted its head weakly, eyes barely open, scanning shadows it couldn’t understand. Everything looked unfamiliar now—the ground, the trees, even the light filtering through the leaves felt distant and threatening.
The baby cried again, each sound weaker than the last.
It didn’t know that its mother had fought exhaustion and pain to protect it. It didn’t know that her body had given out after giving everything she had. It didn’t know that sometimes love ends before understanding ever begins.
All it knew was hunger.
Its belly tightened painfully. Instinct took over as it rooted against the ground and against its mother’s still body, searching for milk, for comfort, for life. Its tiny mouth opened and closed in desperate reflex.
Nothing came.
Tears gathered in its eyes, sliding down its small face. The cries turned into broken sobs, interrupted by shallow breaths. Still, it cried—because silence felt worse than fear.
Time passed slowly.
The sun climbed higher, sending soft light through the trees. Warmth touched the baby’s back, but sunlight could not replace arms. It could not replace the heartbeat that once told the little monkey it was safe.
Exhaustion finally began to win.
The little monkey crawled closer to its mother and pressed itself against her chest, resting its tiny head where warmth used to live. Its hands clutched tightly into her fur, refusing to let go.
Its cries faded into quiet whimpers.
Even as sleep pulled at its fragile body, it continued to search—turning its face, shifting its hands, hoping without knowing what hope was. Hoping the warmth would return. Hoping the world would become small and safe again.
The little monkey didn’t understand loss.
But it felt it deeply—
as cold,
as hunger,
as silence.
And in that silence, it waited, still searching for the love it had only just begun to know.
