Under the tall trees, hidden by thick green leaves, lies a tiny monkey no bigger than a curled-up kitten. His soft fur is ruffled and dusty, and one small leg is scraped raw from a tumble down a rough tree trunk. He shivers in the dappled light, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the whimpers that bubble in his throat.
Nearby, his mother paces anxiously, chattering soft, worried calls that only he can understand. She wants to pick him up and run him high into the safety of the branches, but she knows she must be gentle — too fast and she might hurt him more.
The troop gathers around at a distance, watching with wide, silent eyes. Even the playful youngsters who normally tumble and chatter stay quiet now, sensing the hush in the air.
The tiny monkey tries to sit up, but pain flashes through his side and he lets out a soft, pitiful cry that cracks the calm. His mother rushes close, scooping him into her arms with trembling fingers. She cradles him against her warm chest, licking the dusty fur around his wound, humming quiet, soothing clicks into his ear.
He clings to her fur, burying his small face into the warmth he knows so well. The soft, steady heartbeat under his cheek calms his tiny sobs. He doesn’t want to cry anymore — Mama is here, and she knows how to make the hurt feel smaller, even if just for now.
The troop slowly drifts away, giving them space. Mama stays, rocking him gently, whispering in the way only monkeys do — “Don’t cry, little one. Rest now. You are safe.”
In her arms, the tiny monkey drifts into sleep, dreaming of tall branches, sweet fruit, and the promise that tomorrow, when he wakes, the pain will feel just a little smaller.
