Poor monkeys

 

In the depths of the jungle, hidden beneath the towering canopy, a lone monkey sat on a moss-covered branch, his golden eyes staring into the mist. The others had long since left him behind, their calls fading into the distance. He had been strong once, playful, full of energy—but now, he could only sit, his thin fingers wrapped around the rough bark, his body too weak to move. Hunger gnawed at his belly, but the grief weighed heavier.

 

Further along the riverbank, a mother cradled her lifeless infant, rocking it gently as if the motion could stir it back to life. She let out soft, choked cries, eyes darting to the sky as if pleading with some unseen force. The others in the troop gave her space, glancing at her but saying nothing. They had seen this before. It was the way of things. The jungle was beautiful, but it was also cruel.

A young male, barely past infancy, wandered alone through the undergrowth. His mother had been taken—by what, he did not know. The absence of her warmth, her protection, her presence, left an ache in his small body. He watched other mothers tend to their young, but none would take him. His cries went unanswered. He curled up in the roots of an old tree, pressing his face into the dirt, and shivered as the night air crept in.

Above them, the trees swayed, whispering secrets in the wind. Somewhere, in the darkness, an old monkey stared at the moon, remembering the ones he had lost, his body frail, his heart heavier than it had ever been. He sighed, alone in a world that had once been full of laughter.