In the quiet corner of a small village, a tiny baby monkey lay curled in a soft cloth, his fragile body rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. He was only a few days old—far too young to understand the world around him, far too young to be without his mother. His eyes were barely open, his skin still pink and delicate, and his tiny hands grasped at the air as if searching for the warmth and heartbeat he had lost.
The baby’s cries were soft but desperate, the kind of call that only a mother should answer. Nature had designed him to cling tightly to her chest, to ride safely on her belly, to sleep wrapped in her arms. But now, without her presence, every movement felt strange, every sound felt unfamiliar. He trembled not from cold, but from confusion and fear.
A kind villager, who found the newborn alone and helpless, lifted him gently into her palms. Her touch was warm, but nothing could replace the soft fur and steady comfort of a mother monkey. Still, she knew she had to try her best. She wrapped him in a warm towel and held him close to her chest, hoping he could hear a heartbeat—something that might remind him of the safety he had lost too soon.
The baby monkey pressed his face into the cloth, searching instinctively for milk, for warmth, for the rhythm of breathing that should have lulled him to sleep. His tiny fingers curled weakly, gripping nothing but air. Every so often, he let out a faint, trembling cry, as if calling, “Mama… Mama…”
The woman prepared a small milk bottle with great care, heating it just enough to mimic a mother’s warmth. She fed him slowly, drop by drop, watching as his body relaxed just a little. His cry softened, and his eyes opened wider—two small, trusting jewels looking for comfort.
He still needed a mother, desperately. But for now, he had gentle hands, warm arms, and a promise: he would not be alone again.
