Tiny baby Leo lies still, curled in a quiet corner, fast asleep and alone. His chest rises and falls softly, each breath light as a whisper. His small body lacks the energy it needs, his strength fading from within. Without the warm, nourishing milk from his mother, Libby, Leo is growing weaker with each hour.
The room is hushed, as if time itself is holding its breath. Leo’s tiny fingers twitch now and then, but mostly, he rests without movement, his needs unmet. He hasn’t cried much — not because he isn’t hungry, but because he doesn’t have the energy to cry anymore. His soft fur clings to his fragile frame, and his eyes remain closed, too tired to explore the world around him.
Libby, his mother, is not there to comfort him, to feed him, to nuzzle him with the warmth only a mother can give. Her milk, once his lifeline, is absent, and without it, Leo is fading into stillness. His body is running low, like a candle burning out — no flame, just the faintest glow of life lingering in sleep.
A newborn like Leo depends entirely on his mother’s care — her milk is not just food; it’s life, warmth, and love. Without it, his small body cannot grow strong. His heart beats on, but each beat grows softer. Sleep is no longer just rest for Leo — it is survival.
