In the corner of a dusty, forgotten street, where the walls were stained with time and the air carried the scent of smoke and rust, a tiny baby monkey lay curled up on the cold, hard cement. His fur was thin, matted with dirt and dried leaves, and his small frame trembled with every gust of wind that passed over his fragile body.
He had no mother to hold him. No warm chest to press against. No soft belly to crawl into. The warmth that most baby monkeys were blessed with—the gentle embrace of a parent—was a dream this little one never knew. He had been left behind days ago, when his mother vanished into the forest, either taken by danger or unable to return. And now, here he was, too small to climb, too weak to cry, and too tired to move.
The cement beneath him was unkind. It held no comfort, only a dull, cruel chill. His thin arms were wrapped around his knees, pulling them close to his chest as if trying to make himself smaller, less visible to the world. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, but sleep offered no peace—only the slow drift into a quiet darkness where dreams were filled with hunger, fear, and loneliness.
Around him, the world moved on. Scooters passed by. People walked close, but never stopped. Occasionally, someone glanced at him—a pitiful, curious look—but no hands reached down to help. No one spoke his name. He had none.
His ribs showed through his little chest. He hadn’t eaten in what felt like forever. The leaves he chewed earlier were bitter and too dry. His mouth was dry, and even the smallest movement sent aches down his back and into his tail. His tiny hands were scraped from trying to crawl to safer places, but nowhere seemed safe when you’re alone and powerless.
Night began to fall. The sky turned a soft orange, then faded to a pale purple. The shadows grew longer, creeping along the cement like silent ghosts. The baby monkey shivered. With no warmth, no light, and no energy, his body surrendered further to the cold. His breaths became slower. His eyes blinked less.
But even in that misery, he tried to stay awake. Maybe someone would come. Maybe a kind mother monkey would spot him. Maybe another baby would nudge him to play. But the silence was his only company, broken now and then by the sound of wind or distant laughter from places far out of reach.
A few flies hovered around his ear. He flicked them away with a slow, lazy movement. Even the insects seemed more energetic than he was.
The cement soaked his warmth like a sponge. He had no nest, no leaves, not even a corner to hide. Just the open street, the harsh surface, and the fading power of his little life.
His eyes fluttered shut again. In his dreams, he saw his mother, her face soft and kind, reaching out for him with a smile. In that brief moment, the baby monkey smiled too. A tiny, barely noticeable curve on his lips. But it faded as quickly as it came.
The world didn’t stop for him. Cars passed. People laughed. A distant dog barked. But the baby lay still now, the power to move drained from him like the last flicker of a candle in the night.
And yet—he was still alive. Barely. His heart beat slow but steady. Somewhere deep inside, the will to live flickered on, stubborn and brave. If only someone would see him. If only a hand would lift him off that cold cement. If only…
But for now, he slept. Poor, powerless, forgotten. A tiny soul on the unforgiving cement floor—too small to be noticed, too innocent to deserve such pain.
