The baby monkey slept curled into a tiny ball, his body warm but restless. His stomach was still empty, and even in sleep, hunger did not let him go. His breathing was uneven, small sighs escaping from his nose as he shifted again and again.
His lips moved softly.
Tiny sucking motions.
He dreamed of milk.
Earlier, he had cried until his voice grew weak. His mouth had opened wide again and again, calling for comfort that did not come in time. Now the cries were gone, replaced by exhausted sleep—but the hunger remained.
His belly felt light. Too light.
One small hand rested near his mouth, fingers curled inward. Every few moments, he sucked on them gently, as if hoping they would somehow turn into milk. It never worked, but instinct kept trying.
Nearby, the caregiver watched quietly.
She could see the signs clearly—the slight tightening of his face, the way his legs twitched, the restless movements that meant his body needed food. She reached out and touched his back gently. His skin felt warm, but thin beneath her fingers.
So small.
The baby stirred, letting out a soft whimper without opening his eyes. His mouth opened slightly, and a tiny sound escaped, half-cry, half-sigh.
“Mm…”
Then he slept again.
Time passed slowly. The forest was quiet, wrapped in afternoon light. Leaves rustled softly above, and insects hummed in the distance. Everything felt calm—but the baby’s hunger made the moment fragile.
His face tightened suddenly, as if something hurt in his dream. His mouth opened wider, searching. His head turned from side to side, lips brushing the air.
Looking for milk.
The caregiver moved closer. She adjusted the cloth around him, tucking it carefully to keep him warm. She prepared the bottle silently, checking the temperature again and again.
Still, she waited.
Waking him too soon could upset him. But waiting too long could weaken him further. She watched every breath, every twitch.
The baby’s stomach growled faintly.
He whimpered again, louder this time, and his eyes fluttered open for a brief moment. They looked unfocused, heavy with sleep. His mouth opened instinctively, and a tiny cry escaped.
🍼
He did not fully wake.
His head drooped back down, and sleep pulled him under again. Hunger and exhaustion tangled together, neither letting go.
The caregiver made her choice.
She lifted him gently, supporting his head and back. His body felt light in her arms, too light for comfort. He made a small protesting sound but did not wake fully.
She brought the milk close.
At the smell, the baby reacted instantly. His mouth opened wide, and his lips searched, even before his eyes opened. When the nipple touched his mouth, he latched on weakly—but eagerly.
He drank in his sleep.
Slow, careful swallows. Milk dribbled down his chin. His body relaxed with each sip, the tightness in his face slowly easing.
The caregiver held him steady, patient, letting him drink at his own pace. She wiped his chin gently, careful not to wake him too much.
His breathing softened.
His sucking slowed.
The hunger that had followed him into sleep finally began to fade.
After a while, his mouth relaxed completely. He slept deeply now, milk warm in his belly, his tiny body finally at ease.
She laid him back down carefully and watched.
This time, there were no whimpers. No restless movements. Just peaceful breathing.
The baby monkey slept—no longer hungry, no longer searching.
Sometimes, even when cries fade, the need remains.
And sometimes, love answers quietly—
just in time.
