The forest was silent, heavy with sorrow, as the lifeless body of a mother monkey lay still upon the ground. Her eyes, once bright with tenderness, were closed forever, leaving behind the fragile newborn pressed against her chest. The tiny baby did not understand death; it only felt the cold stillness of the mother’s body and the absence of warmth it had always known.
The newborn clung tightly to her, as if by holding on it could bring her back. Its tiny fingers dug into her fur, trembling with desperation. Soft cries escaped its mouth—thin, broken wails that carried through the quiet air. It was the sound of pure hunger, pure grief, and pure confusion. The baby searched instinctively for milk, pressing its mouth against the mother’s body, but there was nothing. No warmth, no nourishment, no heartbeat.
The more it searched, the more frantic it became. Its cries grew louder, piercing, echoing through the trees like the sorrow of a lost soul. Hunger twisted in its tiny belly, and fear clouded its innocent eyes. Each cry was a plea for comfort, for survival, for the mother who would never answer again.
Around them, the forest continued without pity. Birds sang, leaves rustled in the wind, but for the newborn the world had collapsed into emptiness. It did not understand why its mother would not move, why her arms no longer held it close. All it knew was the cold ground beneath them, the hunger gnawing inside, and the endless loneliness pressing down.
The little one crawled weakly across its mother’s body, tugging at her face, trying to wake her with tiny desperate hands. When she did not respond, it cried even harder, the sound breaking like glass against the silence.
There was no one there to comfort it, no one to feed it, no one to explain why the warmth was gone forever. Only a newborn’s broken cries remained, a tragic song of hunger and grief in the shadow of death.
