At the edge of the rainforest, where tall trees whispered secrets to the wind, a tiny monkey sat alone on a low branch. His fur was still soft and thin, the color of warm honey, and his eyes were far too big for his small face. He wrapped his long tail around the branch and pulled his knees close to his chest, as if hugging himself. The forest around him was alive with soundābirds calling, leaves rustling, insects hummingābut none of it eased the heavy feeling in his heart. He was lonely, and he didnāt understand why the warmth he once knew had disappeared.
Not long ago, the little monkey had spent his days clinging to his motherās chest. Her heartbeat had been his music, steady and reassuring. She had shown him how to hold on tight, how to balance when the branches swayed, and how to listen for danger. When he grew tired, she would pause and let him rest, her arm curled protectively around him. To him, she was the whole world. Then one morning, everything changed.
The forest had been loud that day, filled with sudden movement and strange sounds. The little monkey remembered being jostled, then losing his grip. He fell only a short distance, but when he looked up, his mother was gone. He called out in the only way he knew howāa soft, trembling cry that echoed between the trees. He waited, certain she would come back. But the hours passed, and the shadows grew long.
