The jungle was alive with the sound of cicadas, the rustling of leaves, and the faraway calls of birds, but hidden in the tall grass, two baby monkeys sat huddled together, trembling. They were small, fragile things, no older than a few months. Their fur was patchy, their tiny faces streaked with tears and dust. Both of them had lost their mother the day before. She had been their protector, their shield from hunger, cold, and danger. Without her, the vast forest seemed endless and cruel.
The first baby clung to his sibling’s arm, crying in soft whimpers that seemed to break the silence of the night. His stomach growled painfully, the hollow ache of hunger twisting inside him. He remembered how his mother would nurse him, how warm and safe he had felt in her arms. Now there was nothing but emptiness, the frightening shadows, and the bite of loneliness.
The second baby monkey tried to comfort him, though he was hurting just as much. His little body ached from scratches he had received while running, tumbling through thorny bushes in the chaos of losing their mother. His eyes were swollen from crying. He pressed his forehead against his sibling’s, as if to say, “We still have each other.”
Both of them cried, their tiny voices echoing against the trees. No one answered. The jungle did not care. The tall branches above swayed as if mocking them. Other monkeys from nearby troops had chased them away earlier, refusing to share food or
As the hours passed, the night grew colder. The babies shivered, curling into each other for warmth. The ground beneath them was damp, and every sound in the darkness made them flinch. An owl hooted. A twig snapped. They squeezed their eyes shut, clinging tighter, crying harder, wishing their mother would return. But wishes did not fill empty bellies.
When morning light broke through the canopy, their small cries began again. They had no energy to search for food, no strength to climb trees. They dragged themselves a few steps to a patch of leaves, hoping for fruit that had fallen, but there was nothing. One tried to chew on a twig, but it only made him cough. Their tiny stomachs screamed for relief, but the world gave them none.
The older one, though just slightly bigger, tried to appear strong. He reached out, patting his younger sibling’s back clumsily. His touch was shaky, his eyes glassy with tears, yet his instinct told him he had to protect. The smaller one leaned into that touch, whimpering, too tired to even lift his head. Together, they cried again, a heartbreaking duet of pain and fear.
Hours crawled by. The sun burned above, and the ground grew hot. Their paws hurt from crawling. Flies buzzed around them, landing on their scratches. Both babies tried swatting weakly, but their strength was fading. They slumped against each other, their cries breaking into hiccups, their voices hoarse from calling for a mother who would never come.
Yet, despite the hunger, the pain, and the exhaustion, they never let go of each other. One would whimper, the other would answer. One would lean forward, the other would steady him. They were bound not only by blood, but by the desperate will to survive together.
The forest around them moved on with its rhythm of life—birds darting from tree to tree, insects humming, monkeys from other families playing high in the branches. But these two poor orphans were left behind, unseen, unheard, as if their suffering belonged only to them.
Their cries softened as the day turned to dusk. They pressed their tiny bodies together, too weak to wail loudly anymore. They looked into each other’s tearful eyes, silently asking questions they could not understand: Why us? Why alone? Why so much hurt?
And then, as night began to fall once more, they curled tighter into one another, two poor baby monkeys with no mother, no family, no comfort. The only thing they had left in the cruel world was each other, and the sound of their soft, broken crying faded into the darkness of the jungle.
