In the heart of the dense jungle, a tiny baby monkey clung tightly to the branch of an old fig tree. His fur was soft and golden, his big brown eyes filled with fear. He was alone.
His mother had gone searching for food early that morning and had not returned. The baby monkey whimpered softly, his small hands trembling as he tried to stay balanced. The jungle was full of danger—snakes slithered through the leaves, eagles circled in the sky, and leopards lurked in the shadows.
Hunger gnawed at his belly, but he was too afraid to move. He had never climbed down from the tree alone before. The other monkeys had left, following their families deeper into the jungle, leaving him behind.
As the sun began to set, the wind howled through the trees. A sudden gust shook the branch, and the baby monkey let out a frightened cry. His tiny fingers slipped, and he tumbled downward. With a desperate grasp, he caught onto a lower branch, his heart pounding wildly.
Then, through the thick leaves, a familiar sound reached his ears—a gentle cooing noise. His mother! She was searching for him, calling his name in the monkey’s language.
Tears filled his eyes as he squeaked back, his voice small but full of hope. In moments, she appeared, her warm arms wrapping around him. Safe at last, he nuzzled into her fur, his fear melting away.
That night, under the glowing moon, the baby monkey lay curled in his mother’s arms, no longer a poor, lost soul but a loved and protected little one once more.
