The forest was silent in a way it had never been before. Not the peaceful silence of early morning or the soft hush that came after rain, but a heavy, aching stillness that pressed down on everything left alive. Leaves no longer rustled with playful movement. Branches no longer shook with laughter or arguments. The place that once breathed with life now felt hollow.
At the edge of a fallen tree sat a lone monkey named Aro. His fur was dusty, his eyes dull from nights without sleep. He stared into the distance, barely blinking, as if hoping the forest would suddenly correct itself, as if the sounds and faces he loved would return if he waited long enough.
“They’re all dead,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “There’s no point in living here.”
Only days before, this forest had been full of noise. Mothers called to their babies, youngsters chased one another through the trees, elders argued over resting spots and food. Aro had grown up surrounded by them. This was not just a place to live—it was his whole world.
Then came the fire.
It started far away, a strange smell carried by the wind. At first, no one understood the danger. By the time the smoke darkened the sky, panic had already spread. The troop scattered, cries echoing through the trees. Aro ran, leaped, climbed—his body moving on instinct alone. He remembered reaching back, calling for his sister, for his mother, for anyone. No one answered.
When the fire finally died and the smoke cleared, the forest was no longer the same. Blackened trees stood like ghosts. The ground was warm and empty. And the voices—those voices that once filled his days—were gone.
Aro searched for hours. He checked every familiar path, every favorite resting branch. He found silence instead of greetings. Ash instead of warmth. Each discovery carved the truth deeper into his heart.
That was when the thought came to him, heavy and cruel: There’s no point in living here.
Without his family, the forest felt meaningless. Every tree reminded him of someone lost. Every clearing echoed with memories. Even the sun seemed colder, shining on a place that no longer felt alive.
He stopped eating. He stopped moving far. He sat where his mother once groomed him, staring into nothing. Hunger gnawed at his body, but grief gnawed harder. Survival felt like a betrayal when everyone else was gone.
Night came quickly. The forest, once comforting, now felt enormous and threatening. Strange sounds made Aro flinch. He curled into himself, wishing sleep would take him somewhere else—somewhere before the fire, before the silence.
As dawn broke, a faint sound reached his ears. Soft. Careful. Aro lifted his head slowly, unsure whether it was real or just another trick of memory. Then he saw her.
An older female monkey stood at a distance, watching him. Her fur was singed in places, her movements slow, but her eyes were alive—alert, searching. When their eyes met, both froze.
For a long moment, neither moved. Then she made a quiet call, gentle and uncertain, as if afraid to hope.
Aro’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how desperately he needed to hear a voice until that moment. He answered with a weak sound, barely more than a breath.
The female approached carefully, respecting his pain. She sat near him but did not touch him. She didn’t speak of loss or ask questions. She simply stayed.
That simple presence cracked something open inside Aro.
Over the next days, others appeared. Not many—just a few survivors who had wandered alone, carrying their own grief, their own belief that everything had ended. They found one another slowly, cautiously, like broken pieces drifting together.
No one said, It will be okay.
No one pretended the loss didn’t matter.
They mourned together. They sat in silence together. They shared what little food they found. Each small act of care became a quiet refusal to disappear.
Aro still felt the ache. The forest still looked scarred. But something had changed. When he woke in the morning, there were eyes that noticed. When he climbed a tree, there was someone below watching, ready to warn of danger.
One evening, as the sky burned orange with sunset, Aro sat beside the older female. He looked across the damaged forest and felt the familiar thought return—but softer now.
They’re all dead…
It was still true.
But the second part no longer felt certain.
Life did not mean forgetting. Living did not mean replacing what was lost. It meant carrying memory forward. It meant surviving not because everything was perfect, but because something still mattered.
The forest would never be the same. Neither would Aro. But new paths could grow alongside old scars. New sounds could slowly join the silence.
As night fell, Aro leaned closer to the others. The air was still heavy, but it no longer crushed him.
For the first time since the fire, he did not wish to disappear.
He stayed.
