What was once a wild jungle drenched in heavy rain now shimmered under the soft light of a rising sun. Leaves still dripped, the ground sparkled with puddles, and the air was thick with the earthy scent of wet soil. Birds began to chirp again, and small animals emerged cautiously from their hiding places. But in the middle of it all—on a large, smooth rock still damp from the downpour—sat a baby monkey, looking unbelievably cool.
He was small, no more than a few months old, but he carried himself with a quiet confidence. His fur was still wet but drying quickly under the warmth of the sun. The rain had flattened it against his skin, making him look leaner, sleeker. His eyes, wide and dark, gazed out across the jungle like a little king surveying his wild kingdom.
There was no sign of his mother. She had been gone since the storm started. Maybe she ran for shelter. Maybe she had left him behind on purpose. But the baby didn’t cry. He didn’t shiver. He didn’t even move much.
Instead, he sat upright, one hand planted firmly on the rock, the other resting on his knee, tail draped lazily behind him. A leaf stuck to his head, but he didn’t care. He blinked slowly, unbothered, letting the breeze wash over him as steam rose from the warm stones beneath. The world around him was soaked and shaken—but he looked like he had been born in the rain, forged by it.
His face held no fear. Just calm. Just cool.
A few other monkeys passed by in the trees, glancing down at him. One juvenile paused, tilted its head, then moved on. They were surprised—was that the same baby who had been soaked and crying during the storm? Now, he looked like a miniature warrior. Untouched by weakness. Unmoved by abandonment.
A butterfly fluttered near his hand. He didn’t swat at it. He just watched it, slowly turning his head as it landed on a flower nearby. A droplet of water slid down his nose. He twitched once, then let it fall. The jungle was alive again, but he sat still—like he belonged more to the silence after the storm than to the chaos before it.
The sun warmed his back, slowly drying his fur. Bits of mist rose around him, catching the light. The baby monkey yawned once, stretched out his arms with perfect slowness, and then leaned back slightly, basking. He wasn’t worried about food. He wasn’t worried about danger. In that moment, he had nothing—and yet, he had everything.
He had survived the rain.
Not just survived—it changed him. He wasn’t just a baby monkey anymore. He was the baby who weathered the storm alone and came out cooler than ever.
Eventually, he stood, shaking the last bits of water from his arms and tail. With a graceful hop, he climbed to a higher point on the rock and sat again, legs crossed, posture strong. A breeze tousled what little fluff remained dry, and for a second, he looked almost like a statue—a monument to quiet courage.
Somewhere in the jungle, his mother might return. Or she might not. Either way, he had proven something to the world and to himself. He could handle the rain. He could handle being alone. He could be more than just small.
He could be cool.
