The morning mist still clung to the tops of the trees when I heard the first terrified shriek. It cut through the quiet forest like a blade, sharp enough to send chills racing down my spine. At first, I thought it was just the call of a macaque warning her troop of danger. But the second scream—high, trembling, filled with raw fear—made my heart stop.
I looked up.
High above me, in a tall, swaying tree, a mother monkey clung to a branch. In her arms, dangling helplessly, was a tiny newborn. But instead of holding him close, she gripped him by one leg and shook him violently. His little arms flailed, his small body swung dangerously close to the edge of the branch, and every time she jerked him, he nearly slipped from her grasp.
My breath caught in my throat. One more shake and he would fall—straight down onto the hard dirt and scattered rocks below.
“Stop… please stop…” I whispered, even though I knew she couldn’t understand me.
But she didn’t stop. Whatever had triggered her—stress, fear, lack of maternal instinct—had turned her into a danger to her own baby. And that baby was seconds away from losing his life.
I dropped my backpack, ran forward, and positioned myself directly under the tree. I opened my arms instinctively, as if I could catch him should he fall. Maybe it was foolish—if he landed wrong, neither of us would survive—but I couldn’t stand there and watch him die.
Then it happened.
The mother jerked him one last time. The tiny monkey slipped from her grip. For a split second, he hung weightless in the air—silent, as if even his scream had abandoned him. And then he fell.
My body moved before my thoughts could. I lunged forward, arms outstretched. The world blurred. The only thing I could see was the tiny life spiraling downward.
And then—
Impact.
Not the thud of a body hitting the ground.
But the soft, fragile weight of a baby monkey landing against my chest and arms.
For a moment, time froze. He was trembling violently, eyes squeezed shut, breathing fast and shallow. I held him close, pressing him to my heartbeat, trying to calm his terror.
“You’re okay… I’ve got you… I’ve got you,” I whispered shakily.
Above us, the mother screeched angrily and leapt away into the trees, disappearing without even a backward glance at the little life she almost destroyed.
I looked down at him again. He was so small, barely the size of my hand, his fur still fluffy with newborn softness. One of his arms was bruised, his tail scraped, and his tiny chest rose and fell with frantic breaths. But he was alive.
And from that moment, he became my responsibility.
Back at the rescue center, the veterinarians examined him quickly. “Lucky,” one of them murmured. “If he had fallen just a little differently…”
I didn’t need to hear the rest.
They gave him warm milk, treated his bruises, and wrapped him in a soft fleece cloth. The moment the blanket swaddled him, he clung to it desperately, as if afraid the world might drop him again.
I sat beside him for hours. Every time I tried to stand, he whimpered. Every time I touched him, he reached for my finger. His trust broke my heart—because it wasn’t real trust yet. It was fear. Fear of being abandoned. Fear of falling. Fear of being hurt again.
So I stayed.
Day and night.
And slowly, he began to heal.
I named him Tiko.
He was weak at first. He couldn’t grip properly. He couldn’t sit without wobbling. He couldn’t even cry loudly; his voice was a faint squeak that sounded more like a hiccup than a call.
But every day, he grew a little stronger.
I fed him warm formula with a tiny syringe, one drop at a time. He held on to my thumb with surprising determination. At night, I let him sleep on my chest, his tiny hands gripping my shirt as if it were the only safe place in the world.
The other staff teased me—“Your little shadow is back!”—because Tiko followed me everywhere. If I walked away, he cried. If I sat down, he climbed onto my lap. If I worked, he clung to my back like a miniature backpack.
He had chosen me.
And I couldn’t deny that I had chosen him too.
Two weeks later, Tiko discovered his first joy in life: playing.
It started when he grabbed a leaf and threw it, only to chase after it like it was the most exciting thing on Earth. Then he started exploring—climbing small branches, jumping between my arms, even sneaking fruit from my pocket. The once-fragile baby now had a spark in his eyes, a mischievous energy that made me both laugh and worry at the same time.
But what melted my heart most was how deeply he trusted me now. Whenever something scared him—a sudden noise, a bird flying too close, another monkey chattering loudly—he ran straight to me, climbed into my arms, and pressed his head under my chin.
“You’re safe now,” I always told him. “No one will ever let you fall again.”
As months passed, Tiko grew into a strong, playful, confident young monkey. His grip became powerful. His jumps grew higher. His curiosity seemed endless. But the sweetest thing of all was that he still remembered the moment I saved him.
Sometimes, when we played in the rehabilitation enclosure, he would suddenly stop, climb onto my shoulder, wrap his little arms around my neck, and snuggle his face against mine. As if he was saying thank you—over and over again without words.
And every time, my heart melted all over again.
But the day I had been preparing for finally arrived.
Tiko needed to return to the wild.
He deserved the freedom his mother never gave him.
On release day, I carried him in a soft carrier to a protected forest area deep within the sanctuary. When I opened the door, he hesitated. His small hands gripped the edge tightly. He looked at the trees, then at me.
His eyes asked the question he couldn’t speak:
“Are you leaving me?”
I knelt down, touched his forehead gently, and whispered, “I’m not leaving you. I’m letting you live.”
For a moment, he clung to my arm.
Then, with a deep breath, he climbed out.
He took three small steps… then bounded up a nearby tree with strength I never imagined during those early days when he was bruised and helpless in my hands.
At the top of the branch, he paused and looked back at me.
Not with fear.
Not with sadness.
But with a kind of quiet understanding.
And then… he disappeared into the forest.
