Under the cold shade of the forest, a poor little monkey sits alone, shivering helplessly. His tiny body trembles not only from the chill in the air but from the emptiness in his heart. The soft fur that should have been brushed by his mother’s gentle touch is instead damp with dew and loneliness. Each passing moment, he looks around—hoping, wishing—that his mother might come back, wrap him in her warmth, and calm his cries. But the forest remains silent.
The mother monkey, once full of love and tenderness, has turned away, distant and distracted. Perhaps she is too weak, too frightened, or simply unable to understand the tiny one’s desperate need. The little monkey crawls toward her shadow, eyes wide and pleading, but receives only cold indifference. He presses his small hands together, curling into a tight ball, as if trying to create the warmth that never comes.
The sun rises slowly above the treetops, its golden rays brushing across his trembling form. For a brief moment, the warmth touches his skin, and he closes his eyes, pretending it is his mother’s embrace. But as the wind blows, the illusion fades, and the cold returns, cruel and relentless.
Around him, the other monkeys leap, play, and chatter, their lives full of joy and connection. Yet he remains apart—silent, fragile, and forgotten. His tiny heart beats faintly with hope, a hope that refuses to die even as his body weakens.
Perhaps one day, a kind soul will notice his suffering and offer the warmth his mother never gave. Until then, the poor little monkey endures the lonely nights, shivering under the indifferent sky, longing for the simple comfort of love that was never his to receive.
