In the quiet shade of the forest, a weak baby monkey lies trembling, its tiny body barely strong enough to move. The morning sun filters through the leaves, warming its frail frame, yet no warmth can fill the emptiness inside — the hunger that gnaws at its little heart. The baby’s cries are soft and fading, a desperate call for the milk that never comes. Its mother, exhausted and thin herself, looks on helplessly, her eyes clouded with worry and confusion. She has no milk left to give, yet her instincts push her to stay close, to comfort her fading child with gentle touches and soft murmurs.
Each day is a silent battle for the little one. Its ribs show through the thin layer of fur, and its movements slow with every passing hour. Still, hope flickers inside that tiny heart. Each time the mother draws near, the baby reaches out weakly, nuzzling her chest, hoping—just hoping—that this time, nourishment will come. But there is only emptiness, only silence.
Other monkeys in the troop climb freely, playing among the branches, their calls echoing with life. But the weak baby watches from below, eyes dim yet filled with longing — longing for the strength to join them, longing for the life that slips away bit by bit.
The mother monkey gently holds her fragile baby close, even as she senses its fading warmth. There are no words in the forest, only the sound of rustling leaves and a quiet goodbye carried on the wind. Though milk never came, love remained until the very end — a silent promise that even in weakness, the bond between mother and child endures beyond hunger, beyond pain, and beyond the final breath.
