The little monkey didn’t know anything about the world yet. It didn’t know danger. It didn’t know death. It didn’t understand why the forest felt so big, so cold, and so empty all at once. All it knew was that something was wrong.
Its tiny body trembled beneath the leaves where it lay. The ground was damp, the air sharp with the smell of rain and broken branches. Just hours ago, it had been pressed tightly against its mother’s chest, wrapped in her familiar warmth, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. That warmth had been its entire universe.
Now it was gone.
The little monkey screamed—not with words, not with understanding, but with instinct. A thin, desperate cry escaped its small throat again and again. It searched blindly, its weak arms stretching outward, fingers curling and uncurling in the air as if the warmth might return if it reached far enough.
“Maa…” its cry seemed to say, though it had no language yet.
It crawled clumsily over wet leaves and tangled roots, its movements slow and uncoordinated. Each inch felt heavy. Each breath felt uncertain. It nudged a familiar shape beside it—its mother’s body—but there was no response. No gentle pull. No comforting sound.
The little monkey cried louder.
Its cries echoed softly through the forest, rising into the tall trees, but the world did not answer. Birds fluttered overhead and flew on. Insects moved through the undergrowth, unaware that a small heart was breaking nearby.
The baby pressed its face against its mother’s fur, confused. The fur was there, but the warmth was not. The heartbeat it relied on had vanished. The body was still, and to the little monkey, stillness felt terrifying.
It screamed again, louder this time, its voice cracking with fear.
The forest breeze brushed against its damp fur, making it shiver. Without its mother’s arms wrapped around it, the cold felt sharper, crueler. The little monkey curled into itself, trying to make its body smaller, trying to hold onto what little warmth remained.
But fear pushed it back up.
It lifted its head weakly, eyes barely open, scanning the shapes and shadows around it. Everything looked unfamiliar now. The ground. The trees. Even the sky peeking through the branches felt distant and threatening.
The little monkey screamed again—each cry a question it could not form.
Why isn’t she here?
Why won’t she hold me?
Why am I cold?
It didn’t know that its mother had fought through pain and exhaustion to protect it. It didn’t know that she had given everything she had left. It didn’t know that some losses come before understanding ever has a chance to grow.
All it knew was hunger.
Its belly ached, empty and tight. It rooted against the ground, instinctively searching for milk, for comfort. Its tiny mouth opened and closed in silent desperation when no warmth answered.
Tears gathered in its eyes, spilling down its small face. The cries became weaker now, breaking into sobs between breaths. Still, it cried—because crying was the only thing it knew how to do.
Time passed slowly.
The sun shifted higher, and light filtered through the leaves, touching the little monkey’s back. But sunlight could not replace arms. It could not replace the steady breathing that once surrounded it.
The baby crawled closer to its mother again, pressing itself against her side, hoping—without knowing what hope was—that something would change. That warmth would return. That the world would become small and safe again.
But nothing moved.
The little monkey’s cries softened, turning into quiet whimpers. Exhaustion weighed on its fragile body. It curled against its mother’s chest, resting its tiny head where her heartbeat used to be.
Still, it searched.
Even as its cries faded, its small hands continued to clutch at her fur, unwilling to let go. Because to the little monkey, she was still safety. She was still home.
And though it didn’t understand loss, it felt it deeply—
as an emptiness,
as cold,
as a silence where love once lived.
