Deep in the shadows of an alley behind a crowded market, a thin, crumpled plastic bag lies half-hidden among trash and old boxes. Inside, pressed against each other for warmth and air, are two tiny baby monkeys. Their soft fur is matted from the damp plastic, their eyes wide and frightened, shining like glass marbles in the dim light.
They don’t understand why they’re there. Their tiny hands scratch at the slick plastic, claws catching on the thin film that holds them prisoner. Each breath is a struggle — the bag traps heat and stale air, making their chests rise and fall too fast. One baby monkey squeaks softly, hoping his mother will hear him and come, but the alley is silent except for the distant hum of people who don’t see them.
Their small bodies shiver in the darkness, bumping against each other for comfort. Now and then they wriggle, trying to push their noses to the tiny hole in the bag’s knot — the only place fresh air slips through. But the bag crinkles shut again, smothering their small hope.
Outside, footsteps pass by. A child laughs. A vendor shouts prices for fruit and toys. But no one notices the plastic bag that moves just a little when one baby monkey tries to stand. No one sees the tiny fingers pressing against the clear wall, desperate for a way out.
If only someone would look closer — they would see tiny eyes begging for help, tiny lungs fighting for air. These poor babies don’t belong here, hidden like garbage in a plastic prison. They belong in the trees, on their mother’s back, under open skies — anywhere but trapped in this bag, waiting for a rescue that must come soon, or not at all.
