In a quiet corner of the empty forest camp, tiny BB Matin curls into a tight, trembling ball beneath a fallen branch. His soft fur is dusty, his eyes wide and wet with tears he doesn’t understand. He lifts his little head every few minutes, peeking around for the familiar shape he wants more than anything — his mother.
Matin’s tiny belly aches with hunger. He lets out a small, broken squeak, then another, louder this time, hoping Mama will hear. He scoots forward on wobbly legs, nose sniffing the air for her warm scent. He doesn’t know she won’t come back — that hunters chased her far away and left him behind when he was too small to cling tight enough to her fur.
He finds a patch of grass and noses at it, hoping for milk that isn’t there. His cries grow softer, tired from calling into the silence. Now and then, he paws at his tiny mouth with his trembling hand, as if trying to comfort himself the way Mama’s warm belly once did.
When the wind rustles the trees above, he looks up in hope — maybe this time it’s her, maybe she’ll appear with gentle hands to pull him close and hush his cries with the only thing he wants: her milk, her warmth, her heartbeat. But each rustle fades into quiet again, leaving him alone with his small, helpless sobs.
As night falls, BB Matin curls tighter under the branch. His tears slow, though the hunger doesn’t. Somewhere in the dark, he dreams of her — warm fur, soft eyes, milk that never runs out.
One day, kind hands may find him, feed him, hold him close the way his mother would have. Until then, poor BB Matin cries softly — a tiny heart still calling for love that feels too far away tonight.
