The newborn monkey was barely bigger than a handful of leaves. Its tiny fingers clutched at nothing as it stumbled through the thick undergrowth, the warmth of its mother already a fading memory. The forest seemed endless — a green maze of shifting shadows and sudden rustles.
Every sound made the baby flinch: the whisper of the wind through high branches, the low hum of insects, the distant call of a bird that might be friend or foe. Its soft fur, still patchy in places, caught on thorns and twigs as it tried to crawl forward, driven only by the instinct to find warmth, to find someone, anyone.
The bush swallowed the little creature easily. Ferns brushed against its back, taller than it was. Roots curled over its path like gnarled fingers. Now and then it let out a thin, high cry — a desperate squeak that vanished into the dense air, unheard by its mother, lost to the tangle of green and brown.
A drop of water slid from a leaf onto its head, startling it so badly it toppled sideways. It lay still for a moment, chest fluttering with shallow breaths. The world smelled of damp earth and crushed plants. It could not see the sky through the thick canopy above, only the shifting dance of light and shadow that made the bush seem alive.
Somewhere nearby, a troop moved through the trees — branches creaked under adult weight, soft chattering echoes in the air. But the baby could not follow the sound. Its limbs trembled as it pressed itself against a root, hoping the smell of old bark would hide it from sharp eyes and sharper claws.
