In the dusty corner of a noisy animal market, a tiny baby monkey huddles beside two equally frightened marmots. Their cage is old, rusted wire bent in places where tiny paws have scratched and pulled, hoping for an escape that never comes.
The baby monkey’s fur is patchy, his ribs showing with every small breath. He clings to the marmots for warmth and comfort, wrapping his thin arms around their soft bodies like they’re his only family now. The marmots press close, eyes wide and dark, flinching each time a loud voice or sudden shove rattles their fragile prison.
Vendors bark prices to passing buyers, bragging about how “cute” and “easy” these animals are to take home. They don’t see the baby monkey’s sad eyes, the way his tiny fingers grip the cage wire until they bleed. A fly lands on his nose; he’s too tired to brush it away.
Children wander past, pointing at the marmots curled like stones. Some giggle, some poke sticks through the bars. The baby monkey flinches but doesn’t fight back. He only squeezes closer to the marmots, who tremble at every poke and loud laugh.
No water drips into their rusty bowl now, just stale fruit peels turning sour in the heat. The baby monkey cries sometimes — soft, almost human sounds that fade into the market’s endless noise. His mother is nowhere. The marmots’ burrows are far away, just a memory now.
Behind them, other cages hold parrots, turtles, dogs with sad, hollow eyes. They’re all waiting, hoping for rescue, or fearing what comes next. The baby monkey looks out through the wire at the busy, careless people, tiny hands reaching for freedom that feels too far away — clinging to the only warmth he has left: two terrified marmots huddled in the shadows beside him.
