In the depths of an ancient forest, where sunlight filters through layers of emerald leaves and the air carries stories older than memory, lived a young mother monkey named Lira. She was small, barely past adolescence, her fur still holding a youthful sheen. Yet in her gentle arms she carried her first baby, a tiny creature with bright eyes that reflected curiosity and trust. To anyone who saw them, they were a portrait of innocence, hope, and new beginnings.
But life in the wild is not a tapestry woven only with beauty. It is also stitched with loss, danger, and the unforgiving laws of survival. And one quiet morning, when the forest seemed unusually still, Lira’s world changed forever.
The troop had begun its daily journey across the treetops, the elders leaping with practiced grace while the youngsters chattered and played. Lira, though agile, moved more slowly, mindful of the fragile weight cradled against her chest. She paused on a branch to adjust her grip, humming soft, comforting clicks to her baby.
Then came the crack—a sharp, unnatural sound that cut through the forest like lightning.
A hunter’s snare, hidden beneath a carpet of leaves, snapped upward with brutal force. Lira never saw it. In an instant, the world lunged, the baby slipped, and Lira’s scream tore through the jungle. She tried to catch her infant mid-fall, her small hands reaching, stretching, trembling—yet the world can be cruelly fast, and she impossibly slow.
The baby struck the ground. Silence followed.
It was a silence so heavy it felt alive, wrapping around her, suffocating her, refusing to let her breathe. Lira scrambled down, every heartbeat a thunderclap in her chest. She nudged the tiny body with shaking fingers, lifted him, rocked him, cried to him. But the little eyes that once glimmered like stars no longer opened.
The troop gathered around her in quiet mourning. In their world, death was not new, yet each loss was its own universe collapsing. The elder females approached, offering gentle grunts, touches, and presence. But Lira could not be comforted. She held her baby close, as if her warmth alone could reignite life, as if love could reverse fate.
For days, she carried him.
Through rain that soaked her fur.
Through nights when predators prowled.
Through days when the troop moved far, and she lagged behind.
Her small body grew weak, her movements slow, yet she refused to let go. The forest watched—birds, insects, flowers, even the wind—as a mother clung to the last thread connecting her to the life she had created.
Some call it instinct. Others call it grief. But hearts, whether human or animal, break just the same.
Eventually, when the weight grew too still and too heavy for her to deny, Lira laid her child beneath the roots of a great tree. She stayed until moonlight kissed the earth, then rose and walked away—forever changed, forever carrying an invisible wound.
And in that forest, among whispering leaves and ancient shadows, a million broken hearts beat with hers.Attach
