The sun was beginning to set over the dense green canopy, casting long shadows across the quiet sanctuary. In a corner of the wooden enclosure, a young monkey named Cutis sat nervously, clutching a tiny, trembling baby monkey to his chest.
For the first time, the adults were gone.
It had started earlier that afternoon. The older monkeys, including the baby’s parents, had been taken out of the enclosure by the caretakers — something about “routine checks” and “vaccinations.” Cutis didn’t fully understand human language, but he could sense from the anxious chatter of the other young ones that they wouldn’t be back right away.
At first, Cutis had thought it was a game. The little baby monkey, no more than a few weeks old, clung to him by instinct, his tiny hands gripping Cutis’s soft fur. Cutis, being just barely a juvenile himself, wasn’t sure what to do. He tried to make silly faces, hopping around to make the baby laugh. For a while, it worked. The tiny one gave out soft, breathy giggles, his pink mouth opening in a happy squeak.
But as the sky turned from bright blue to a deep purple, the mood changed.
The baby began to whimper. Small, pitiful sounds that pierced Cutis’s heart. He bounced the baby gently, trying to mimic the way he had seen the adults comfort the younger ones. But the whimpers turned into cries — high-pitched, desperate cries that echoed in the enclosure.
Cutis panicked.
He tried offering bits of banana, but the baby was too young to eat. He tried grooming him, picking at invisible specks of dust from his tiny back, but the baby only sobbed harder.
Cutis felt a lump form in his throat. His own eyes grew wet. He didn’t understand why the others hadn’t come back yet. Why was it just him? He was just a kid too. Why was he the one left to care for this tiny, helpless life?
The night grew darker, and the enclosure, usually full of bustling noise, became eerily quiet. The other young monkeys huddled together, whispering in their own language, afraid. None of them had their mothers tonight.
Cutis held the baby closer.
The baby’s cries had softened into shuddering breaths, his small body trembling from exhaustion. Gently, Cutis rocked him side to side.
“I’m here,” Cutis whispered in his mind, wishing the baby could understand. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”
But deep inside, Cutis himself felt so very alone.
He thought about his own mother — how she used to wrap her arms around him, hum little monkey songs, stroke his fur until he felt safe and warm. The memory made his chest ache. Would the baby even remember this night? Would he remember the sadness, the coldness of being without his parents?
Cutis didn’t know.
Hours crawled by. The moon rose high in the sky, silver light bathing the enclosure. Cutis barely noticed. His entire world had shrunk to the small bundle in his arms.
When the baby shivered, Cutis adjusted his position, wrapping his legs and tail around him to keep him warm. When the baby stirred and whimpered in his sleep, Cutis gently patted his tiny back, humming the only tune he knew — an off-key, broken version of the lullabies his mother used to sing.
He was tired. So tired. His eyes drooped, his arms ached, but he didn’t dare let go. He was terrified that if he closed his eyes, something would happen to the baby.
In the darkness, Cutis made a decision, one that, in his young mind, felt heavier than any decision he’d ever made.
He would protect the baby.
No matter how scared he was.
No matter how confused he felt.
No matter how long the night dragged on.
It wasn’t the baby’s fault that the parents were gone. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But someone had to be there. Someone had to care.
And somehow, deep inside, Cutis knew it had to be him.
The night stretched endlessly, but somehow, morning did come.
Pale golden light filtered through the trees. Cutis, still cradling the sleeping baby, blinked wearily at the brightness. His body was stiff and sore, but when he looked down at the peaceful face of the little one, he felt a spark of pride flicker in his chest.
They had made it.
Soon, the caretakers returned, bringing with them the baby’s parents and the other adults. There was a flurry of excited cries and joyful reunions. The baby’s mother rushed over, scooping her little one into her arms with a cry of relief.
For a moment, Cutis felt a pang of sadness. The baby, who had clung to him all night, didn’t even glance back as he nuzzled into his mother’s chest.
Cutis lowered his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek before he could stop it.
But then something surprising happened.
The baby’s mother turned to Cutis and pressed her forehead gently against his — a traditional monkey gesture of gratitude and love.
Cutis froze, then closed his eyes, soaking in the warmth of the gesture.
He hadn’t been forgotten.
He hadn’t been invisible.
He had been a hero in the quiet, unseen hours of the night.
Cutis sat down heavily, exhaustion washing over him now that the responsibility was lifted. As he watched the mother and baby reunite, he realized that sometimes being strong meant being scared, sad, and confused — and choosing to care anyway.
Even when it was hard.
Even when no one else was watching.
That night had changed him.
Cutis wasn’t just a little monkey anymore. Deep inside, something had grown — something fierce and tender, like a new, tiny flame.
He smiled softly to himself as he curled up under the warm morning sun.
Tomorrow would bring new games, new adventures. But for now, he would rest, knowing he had done something important, something good.
And even if no one ever told the story of Cutis and the baby monkey, he would always remember:
When no one else was there, he stayed.
When the night was darkest, he loved.
And that made all the difference.
