Deep inside the quiet forest, the morning light broke through the leaves, painting the ground with soft golden rays. But under one tall tree, the scene was heartbreakingly still. A mother monkey sat there, holding her tiny baby tightly in her arms. The little one’s body no longer moved — eyes closed, small fingers cold, his chest no longer rising and falling. He had passed away, but the mother could not understand it. She refused to let go.
Her arms wrapped around her baby’s fragile body as if her warmth could bring him back. Every few moments, she pressed her nose against his face, sniffing softly, trying to sense his smell — the smell she had known since his first breath. Her eyes were wide and glassy, full of confusion and pain. She didn’t know why her baby was so quiet, why he wouldn’t cling to her fur anymore.
Sometimes she rocked him gently, just as she used to when he was alive. She made low, sorrowful sounds in her throat, calling to him again and again, hoping for an answer that would never come. Her tiny baby’s limp body moved slightly in her arms, and she hugged him tighter, afraid he might fall.
Hours passed. The forest lived on around her — birds sang, leaves rustled, and other monkeys played nearby. But this mother stayed still, her world frozen in grief. The troop watched her silently from a distance. A few came close, curious, sniffing the lifeless baby. One of them touched the small body softly, but the mother growled sharply, pulling her baby closer, refusing to let anyone touch him.
Her pain was deep and raw. She groomed him carefully, licking his fur, cleaning the dust from his tiny face, even though his little mouth would never open again. Every stroke was filled with love and disbelief. She tried to move his hands, to make him hold onto her chest the way he always did, but his fingers only fell limply. Each time, her heart broke a little more.
The day grew hotter. The baby’s body became stiff, but still, the mother refused to accept it. She carried him wherever she went — climbing trees, walking along branches, holding him tightly to her belly. When she rested, she placed him gently on her lap, grooming him as if he were simply sleeping. She didn’t eat, didn’t drink, didn’t join the others. Her world was now only her baby.
At times, she would cry out — a deep, haunting sound that echoed through the forest. It wasn’t the usual call of a monkey. It was the sound of heartbreak, pure and heavy. The other monkeys stopped and looked toward her. They understood, in their own quiet way, what had happened. A few mothers sat close by, their eyes soft with sadness, but none tried to take the baby away. They knew the pain was too deep.
As the sun began to set, the light turned orange and gold. The mother still held her baby, rocking him slowly. She pressed her face against his little chest, listening for a heartbeat that would never return. Her tears glistened on her fur, falling silently onto the baby’s body.
Night came. The forest grew darker, and the air turned cool. Yet she still didn’t let go. She climbed up a tree with her baby clutched against her stomach, choosing a safe branch where they used to sleep together. She curled her body around him, keeping him warm though he no longer felt the cold. The stars twinkled faintly above, and the jungle hummed softly below.
Through the long night, she barely closed her eyes. Every now and then, she touched his face again, hoping for movement. Her fingers brushed over his tiny mouth, but it stayed still. Her grief grew heavier, but her love never faded. To her, he was still her baby — her reason to wake, to breathe, to exist.
Days passed, and still, she carried him. The other monkeys began to move on with their routines — foraging, playing, resting — but the mother stayed trapped in her sorrow. She moved slowly now, tired and weak from not eating. The weight of her baby’s body in her arms was both heavy and sacred.
Sometimes she would sit in the same spot for hours, staring into the distance while gently grooming his fur. She could not understand that life had left him; she only knew that he was her baby and she could not abandon him. Even as the scent of death grew stronger, she continued to care for him as if he were alive — licking his hands, fixing his fur, whispering soft, broken calls.
One evening, a light rain began to fall. The drops slid down the leaves and soaked her fur, but she didn’t move. She shielded the baby with her body, wrapping her arms and tail around him tightly. Her eyes closed, and she pressed her cheek against his tiny head. The world around her blurred with sadness and love.
When the rain stopped, she looked up at the sky — at the fading light, at the clouds drifting slowly past. Her face was weary, her eyes swollen from crying. She gave one last gentle call, a soft, trembling sound, and looked down at her baby once more.
Even when her strength was almost gone, she still carried him close to her heart. It didn’t matter that he had passed — her love was stronger than death itself. In her arms, her baby would always be safe, always be hers.
She sat there as the jungle grew quiet again, the wind whispering through the trees. A mother, broken yet faithful, holding on to the only piece of her heart she had left.
