The forest was still, wrapped in a gray morning mist, when the cries first began. Faint, trembling sounds—soft but full of fear—echoed from a hollow near the riverbank. No one in the forest could ignore those cries. They carried pain. They carried desperation. They carried life struggling to survive.
Inside the hollow, three newborn animals, born in the darkest hours of the night, lay huddled together. Their mother, a young wild doe named Ayla, had gone into labor too early. The storm that raged the night before had soaked the earth, turned the river violent, and shaken the forest so fiercely that she could barely find shelter. She delivered her babies alone, terrified and trembling.
Now, the forest floor was damp and cold, and her newborns—two fawns and a smaller one who barely breathed—were in terrible distress.
Their tiny chests rose and fell unevenly.
Their legs twitched from the cold.
Their soft cries filled the wet, echoing hollow.
Ayla stood over them, pacing back and forth, her own breathing sharp and frantic. She nudged each baby gently, trying to warm them, but their bodies were too weak and the night had been too cruel. She licked their fur, desperate, trying to clean away the cold rainwater. She curled her body around them, trying to shield them from the icy breeze, but her strength was fading.
The weakest fawn lay almost motionless, its head resting limply against a root. Its breaths came shallow and far apart. Ayla nudged it harder this time, fear making her movements urgent. The tiny fawn let out a single faint squeak—its strength almost gone.
Ayla cried softly.
Her cries traveled far.
Up in the trees, a small family of monkeys heard the sound. One of them, Yura, a gentle female known for her compassion, climbed down from her branch. She approached slowly, cautious but concerned. She had seen distressed newborns before—monkeys, birds, even small boars. But she had never seen a doe’s newborns suffering like this.
Ayla did not back away. She was too exhausted, too desperate for help. She simply watched Yura with wide, trembling eyes.
Yura crept closer until she could see the newborns clearly. Their fur was cold and wet. Their bodies shook. Their eyes remained closed—too weak even to open. The smallest barely clung to life.
Yura chirped softly to Ayla as if saying, You’re not alone.
The monkey touched the smallest fawn with gentle fingers. It was icy cold.
In a rush of instinct, Yura called out sharply.
Her troop answered.
Within moments, two more monkeys appeared—Mio, a young male, and Sari, an older mother who had raised many infants. They quickly understood the situation and began to help.
Mio jumped to nearby trees and tore down broad leaves to build a dry nest around the newborns.
Sari began grooming their fur, warming them with her hands.
Yura positioned herself beside the smallest fawn, wrapping her body around it, sharing her warmth carefully and continuously.
Ayla watched, trembling but hopeful. She placed her head close to her babies, giving soft nudges, reassured by the presence of the helpers.
As the minutes passed, the newborns’ breathing began to steady.
Their cries softened.
Their tiny bodies warmed under the combined protection of fur, leaves, and shared heat.
The weakest fawn twitched first—just a small movement—but enough to make Ayla gasp softly in relief. Yura chirped encouragingly, touching its head with her nose. The little fawn gave a faint but real sound—proof that it was still fighting.
The storm had taken much from the forest, but not these newborns. Not today.
As the sky brightened, Ayla gathered all her strength and pulled her babies close beneath her chest. The monkeys stepped back, watching carefully, making sure the little family was safe.
Ayla looked at them with deep gratitude in her eyes. She didn’t have words, but she didn’t need them.
Her babies lived.
Her hope returned.
And the forest around her stood united—protecting the fragile, the wounded, and the newborns struggling to survive.
