The jungle awoke with its usual chorus of birds, chattering branches, and rustling leaves—but beneath those familiar sounds, another voice trembled through the undergrowth. A newborn monkey, barely hours old, lay curled at the base of a thick tree root, its cries rising sharply into the morning air. Each sound seemed too big for its tiny body, yet desperation pushed the weak wails louder and louder. They were cries born of fear, hunger, and a confusion no newborn should ever endure.
The infant’s fragile limbs trembled with each attempt to lift its head. Its small fingers scraped at the dirt, searching for something familiar—warmth, touch, breath, anything that resembled the comfort it had known in its mother’s body. But all it felt was the rough earth beneath it and the cold air pressing against its thin skin. Its eyes remained squeezed shut, wet and swollen from the effort of crying.
Only a short distance away, hidden by tangled vines, the old mother monkey clung to a low branch. Her body was hunched, her fur patchy and graying with age. She watched the tiny newborn on the ground with a haunting mix of longing and helplessness. Exhaustion clung to her like a heavy shadow. She had given birth earlier than expected, far from the troop and far from safety. Her frail limbs had barely carried her this far after leaving the baby behind; strength had abandoned her just as she had abandoned her infant.
She wanted to go back. Every loud cry from her newborn pierced her chest, as if slicing through her aged heart. The sorrow in her clouded eyes told a story no words ever could. But survival instincts—cold, ancient, unforgiving—held her frozen. She knew she could not feed the baby. She knew her body was failing. A dying mother could not raise a living child. And so she remained hidden, trembling, listening to the cries grow stronger, sharper, harder to bear.
On the ground, the baby’s fragile voice echoed again, louder this time. The sound rose through the vines, bounced off tree trunks, and carried far beyond the quiet clearing. Birds startled from nearby branches. A squirrel froze in place, listening curiously. Even insects seemed to pause in their crawling paths, as if disturbed by the newborn’s helpless plea.
With each cry, the infant strained its neck, turning its head blindly toward the sound of movement—toward anything that wasn’t emptiness. Something deep within its tiny body pushed it to call louder still. It didn’t understand abandonment. It didn’t understand why warm arms hadn’t lifted it, why milk didn’t fill its mouth, why the beating heart it knew so well was now too far away to feel. All it knew was fear, and in fear, it cried.
The wind shifted slightly, brushing leaves across its back. The sudden touch startled the baby, and it let out a sharper, broken wail. Its legs kicked weakly, and its small chest heaved with effort. The louder it cried, the more its tiny lungs struggled, but the instinct to call out—to survive—overpowered its exhaustion.
Not far off, the mother flinched. Her hands trembled as she gripped the branch. Her whole body rocked with the weight of her grief. But she did not move. She could not move. Instinct told her the troop would not accept this fragile infant. Predators were always watching. Bringing the baby would only lead both of them into danger. Better, nature whispered, to let the forest decide the child’s fate.
Still, the cries tore her apart.
Minutes turned into long, aching stretches of time. The newborn’s voice grew hoarser, yet somehow louder—as though the urgency of its fear pushed its weak throat to amplify every sound. Sweat gathered on its tiny brow. Its fingers opened and curled again, reaching out into the nothingness.
The forest slowly began to respond. Curious eyes peeked from bushes. A pair of mynah birds hopped closer, startled by the volume of the infant’s wailing. A lizard crept cautiously along the roots, watching the trembling body with a mix of caution and interest. Even the distant troop paused in their morning forage, lifting their heads toward the direction of the sound.
The baby’s cries continued, ragged but persistent. Each one seemed to carry a question: Where are you? Why am I alone? Why won’t you come?
But no answer came.
Only the echo of its voice returned, bouncing back through the forest like a ghost of hope. The mother remained hidden in the shadows, her heart breaking with every sound, her body frozen by the cruel laws of survival.
And the newborn, abandoned and trembling, continued to cry into the vast, indifferent jungle—louder, louder still—as though the sheer force of its voice might somehow pull love back to its side.
