In a small clearing beneath a broad canopy of green leaves, a tiny baby monkey lies on the cool earth. His soft fur is dusty from the forest floor, and his tiny hands reach out, trembling, as he tries to crawl back to his mother’s side.
Not long ago, he clung tightly to her belly, eyes closed, trusting that wherever she went, he would be safe and warm. But today is different. He slipped from her fur while she searched for food nearby, landing softly but too far to climb back on his own.
He lets out tiny, broken cries, squeaking and squirming in the fallen leaves. Each time he pushes up on his thin arms, his small body wobbles and falls back down. His wide eyes search for his mother — a shape he knows better than anything.
She is only a few steps away, grooming herself under a patch of sun. Her ears twitch when he cries out, but she doesn’t come closer. Maybe she is too tired. Maybe she thinks he must learn to crawl on his own. Or maybe her mind drifts elsewhere, toward food, safety, or another baby needing her more.
The baby rolls onto his side, breathing hard from his tiny effort. He squeaks again, calling for her warmth, her heartbeat, her strong arms to lift him back where he belongs. But the mother only glances over once, then turns away, picking at the bark for hidden bugs.
Nearby, an older sibling watches. Curious, it steps closer, sniffing the struggling baby. With a soft, playful nudge, the sibling pushes him upright and stays beside him.
Though his mother’s care is distant for now, a small comfort settles in: he is not entirely alone. The baby snuggles against his sibling, safe for one more night under the quiet trees.
