His tiny body shook as he tried to lift himself up again. He wasn’t strong yet; newborn monkeys depend completely on their mothers, especially in the first weeks of life. Yet there he was, dragging his fragile little body forward inch by inch, hoping that this time Mala would respond.
But she didn’t.
Her ears twitched when he cried, but she kept her face turned toward the treetops, as if pretending she couldn’t hear him. Kiri reached the base of the tree trunk and attempted to climb, his hands slipping on the rough bark. He wasn’t ready for climbing yet—he should’ve already been clinging to her fur, not struggling alone on the ground.
A soft whimper escaped him as he fell back onto the leaves.
Nearby, other members of the troop watched quietly. Older females exchanged uncertain looks. Some mothers occasionally helped abandoned infants, adopting them or sharing warmth. But most were cautious, unsure of how Mala would react if they stepped in. The troop’s leader kept his eyes on the situation, waiting for the moment when intervention became necessary.
Kiri, exhausted, curled into a small trembling ball. His tiny chest rose and fell quickly as he tried to calm himself. The world felt too big for him—too loud, too cold, too empty.
Again he cried.
This time, the sound was softer, almost fading. It was the cry of a little one running out of strength.
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves. A female monkey named Suri finally moved. She had lost her own infant the previous season, and something in Kiri’s cry pulled at her heart like a familiar echo. She approached slowly, watching Mala for any sign of protest. Mala remained still, her gaze fixed elsewhere.
Suri reached the tiny newborn, scooping him gently into her arms. Kiri clung to her instantly, his weak fingers tightening in desperation. She held him close, offering warmth, comfort, and the steady heartbeat he needed.
His cries quieted.
For the first time since his birth, Kiri felt safe.
