The rain fell without mercy.
It crashed through the forest in thick, pounding sheets, turning dry paths into rushing streams and low ground into dangerous floodwaters. Thunder rolled again and again, shaking the trees as if the earth itself were crying out. In the middle of the chaos, a mother monkey named Sena clung desperately to a half-submerged tree trunk, her body trembling as water surged around her.
Pressed tightly against her chest were three terrified babies.
They were soaked, shivering, and crying in thin, panicked voices. Their tiny fingers dug into Sena’s fur as muddy water rushed past their legs. Each sudden wave made them squeal in fear, clinging harder, convinced the water was trying to steal them away.
Sena wrapped her arms around them tighter.
The flood had come too fast. One moment the forest floor was damp; the next, water poured in from the hills, swallowing roots, stones, and familiar paths. Sena had tried to escape uphill, but the current forced her back. Now this tree was the only thing keeping her family from being swept away.
Another surge slammed into her side.
She staggered but held firm, planting her feet against the trunk, tail wrapped tightly for balance. Water soaked her fur, pressed against her chest, climbed higher with every passing minute. Her teeth chattered, not from cold alone—but from fear.
The babies cried louder.
One buried its face into her neck.
Another clung to her arm, shaking uncontrollably.
The smallest whimpered weakly, barely strong enough to hold on.
Sena lowered her head and pressed her cheek against theirs, making soft, calming sounds even as panic burned inside her chest.
“I’m here,” her voice seemed to say.
“Hold on. I won’t let go.”
Rain stung her eyes. Her arms ached. Her muscles screamed with exhaustion. Still, she did not move. She turned her body sideways so the strongest waves hit her back instead of the babies. Muddy water rushed past her legs, tugging, pulling, testing her grip.
A thick branch snapped nearby and vanished into the flood.
The babies screamed.
Sena cried out too—sharp, loud calls that cut through the rain. She screamed for help, for her troop, for anything that might hear her above the storm.
For a terrifying moment, no one answered.
The water rose to her waist.
Her heart pounded wildly. She knew she could not last forever like this. Her arms were burning. Her grip was weakening. She leaned her body even closer to the tree, pressing her babies against the bark so they could cling if her strength failed.
Then—voices.
Faint at first. Then louder.
The troop.
Three adult monkeys appeared through the rain, leaping from higher ground onto branches above the flood. They froze when they saw Sena standing in the rushing water, holding her babies against her chest.
Without hesitation, they moved.
One adult climbed down and grabbed a low branch, anchoring it firmly. Another extended an arm toward Sena. The third shouted warnings, keeping watch as debris rushed past.
Sena waited for the right moment.
When the water dipped slightly between surges, she lifted the strongest baby first, pushing it upward into the waiting arms above. The baby screamed but was quickly pulled to safety. She did the same with the second, then the third—each transfer tearing at her heart until she felt their weight leave her chest.
Only then did she let herself shake.
Strong hands grabbed her arms and pulled her from the flood just as another wave crashed into the tree trunk she had been holding. The branch snapped behind her, swallowed instantly by the water.
Sena collapsed onto higher ground, gasping for breath.
Her babies were placed against her immediately, climbing back into her arms, crying but alive. She wrapped herself around them completely, trembling, licking their wet faces again and again.
The rain continued, but the danger had passed.
That night, high in a sheltered tree, Sena held her three babies close as they finally slept. Her body ached. Her fur was still damp. But her heart was full.
The flood had tried to take everything.
A mother’s love refused to let go.
