In a dim, dusty corner of an old animal market, a tiny baby monkey sits curled in the far end of a rusted cage. His small hands clutch the cold metal bars, and his wide, frightened eyes peer out at the people who pass by but never stop.
He doesn’t know how he got here. Once, not long ago, he felt the warmth of his mother’s arms and the gentle sway of branches high in the trees. But rough hands came in the dark, loud voices and shaking branches pulling him away. Now, the only sounds are distant footsteps and the quiet rustle of a torn cloth covering part of his cage.
He is too young to understand why his mother never comes. Each time he hears a voice or sees a shadow, he lifts his tiny head, hoping it might be her. But no familiar face appears — only strangers who glance at him with curious eyes before walking away.
The floor of the cage is cold, scattered with wilted leaves and a few pieces of fruit he’s too small to peel by himself. He tries to curl into a tight ball to feel less alone, but the cage feels too big when you’re so tiny and lost.
Sometimes, he lets out a small, soft cry — not loud enough to anger the sellers, but enough to remind the world he’s still here, still hoping someone will notice.
One day, maybe gentle hands will open that cage. Maybe warm arms will lift him out and carry him far away from metal bars and cold floors. Until then, the pity baby monkey waits in the quiet, clinging to the only thing he has left — a small hope that kindness will find him before the loneliness does.
