High above the forest floor, where the sunlight flickers through leaves and the wind whispers through ancient trees, a tiny monkey clings to a branch. His name is unknown, his cries unheard. He is a forest orphan—left alone in a world that once felt warm, now turned cold and quiet.
Once, not long ago, he had a family. His mother held him close, her heartbeat steady and strong. Her arms were safety, her presence a constant comfort. But the jungle is unpredictable. A flash of panic, the rustle of danger, and she was gone. Taken too fast, without warning. No one returned.
At first, the baby waited. He stayed near the last place he saw her, believing she would come back. His tiny hands reached for her scent in the air, his eyes scanned every shadow. But days passed, and hunger grew. His cries echoed through the trees, but no answer came. Other monkeys passed by, but none stopped. He was too small to matter in a world ruled by survival.
He learned to climb slower, with less strength. The fruit he found was often old, the water stale. The joy of swinging freely turned into cautious movement, every step guided by fear rather than play.
Each night, he curled into himself on a cold branch, listening to the distant calls of families he no longer had. Rain would fall through the canopy, soaking his thin fur. He didn’t cry loudly anymore—just soft whimpers, like whispers lost to the wind.
Still, he held on. There was something in him—something quiet but strong. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was hope. Whatever it was, it kept him alive.
Tears still fell in the treetops. But so did a tiny heartbeat—still fighting, still there.
His mother heard his distant cry and rushed toward the sound. She screeched and tugged at the trap, pulling at the branches with wild desperation. But the wire was too tight. She couldn’t free him. She sat beside him, crying softly, helpless.
The humans had long left the area. They hadn’t meant to hurt anyone—they had set the trap for pests, not baby monkeys. But the jungle doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t understand intentions. It only knows consequences.
By evening, the sky turned orange. Luma’s breathing slowed. His mother stayed with him, grooming his fur, whispering little grunts of love and sorrow.
The forest, once alive with play, now held a silence too heavy for its trees.
