In the quiet shade of the forest, where leaves rustle softly in the wind, a tiny monkey sits alone. His fur, once fluffy and full of life, now clings to his fragile frame. His eyes, wide with sadness, scan the trees above—searching, hoping—for a mother that hasn’t returned and for food that isn’t there.
His stomach growls softly, a sound swallowed by the silence of the jungle. He doesn’t understand why the fruits have stopped appearing, why his family is nowhere to be found. He only knows the ache in his belly and the heaviness in his heart. Each small cry he lets out is a call to the world—a plea not just for nourishment, but for comfort, for warmth, for someone to care.
The sun filters through the canopy, casting golden light on his trembling body. Flies buzz around him, and he swats weakly, but his strength is fading. Still, he holds on, waiting beneath the tree where he last saw his mother. Hunger has made his cries softer, but the sorrow in them echoes louder.
Every tear that slips down his cheek is more than pain—it’s a question: Why is there no one here for me?
In the vast wilderness, his life hangs in delicate balance. And yet, even in his despair, there’s a fragile thread of hope—hope that something will change, that a kind hand or a stroke of luck might find him before it’s too late.
A baby monkey should never cry alone. But in this forgotten corner of the world, he does—his hungry tears falling like rain in a forest too quiet to notice.
