The morning sun had not yet risen high above the forest when the little baby monkey shivered under a thin branch. His tiny body curled tight, his arms wrapped around his belly, but no warmth came. The air was heavy with the chill of night, and dew still clung to the leaves, making everything damp. His fur, usually soft and fluffy, was wet and stuck to his thin skin. He trembled again, teeth chattering, eyes half-closed from exhaustion.
He was only a few months old, too young to understand why the cold pressed so deep into his bones. A baby should have been tucked safely against his mother’s chest, warmed by her heartbeat, fed by her milk. But fate had been unkind. His mother was gone, leaving him alone in the wide, cruel forest. Every sound startled him. Every shadow made him shrink lower against the ground.
The cold was not his only enemy. Hunger gnawed at his tiny stomach, twisting it so painfully that he cried out in a weak, broken squeak. His cries echoed softly, but no one came. He sniffed around the roots of the tree, his little fingers searching for something—anything—to fill his mouth. He found only dirt, a bitter taste that brought him no comfort.
The baby dragged himself toward a bush where the older monkeys often ate. He had seen them pluck fruits with ease, their strong hands reaching high. But his arms were short, his body weak. He tried to climb, but his fingers slipped, his nails scratching bark as he fell back to the ground with a small thud. Tears welled in his eyes. The hunger was unbearable. His stomach groaned loudly, a pitiful sound in the silence of the morning.
From above, a bird sang brightly, but its cheerful voice was like a cruel joke. Life around him seemed full and strong, while he was fading—cold, hungry, and forgotten. He pressed his face into his hands and whimpered softly. His nose was running from the chill, his lips dry and cracked.
Moments stretched into hours. The sun began to rise higher, but its warmth barely touched him beneath the trees. He crawled again, desperate, his little legs trembling. At last, he spotted a piece of half-eaten fruit dropped on the ground, left behind by another monkey. His eyes lit up. With all the strength left in him, he scrambled forward and grabbed it.
The fruit was dirty, covered in ants, but to the starving baby it was treasure. He bit into it, his small teeth tearing the soft flesh. Sweetness filled his mouth, bringing instant relief. For a moment, he forgot the cold. He chewed quickly, juice running down his chin, his tiny hands clutching the fruit as if someone might take it away. Each bite gave him a spark of life, though his body still shook with weakness.
When the last piece was gone, he licked his fingers, unwilling to waste a drop. The hunger inside him calmed just a little, though not fully. His belly was still empty, but at least the pain was less sharp. He leaned against the root of a tree, exhausted, eyes heavy with sleep.
But the forest was not gentle. A cool breeze swept through, and once again the baby trembled violently. His thin fur could not protect him. He curled into a ball, hugging himself, pressing his face against his knees. He longed for his mother’s arms, for warmth, for safety.
The little monkey closed his eyes, tears sliding down his cheeks. Between hunger and cold, he fought to stay awake. Each breath came slow and weak. Though he had found a taste of food, the night’s chill still clung to him like a shadow. His small heart beat bravely, but it was clear—this poor baby was struggling against a world far too big, far too harsh for someone so fragile.
