Under the mottled shadows of the late‑afternoon jungle, a tiny newborn langur clung to the base of an old kapok tree, his trembling fingers searching for comfort that no longer waited. Moments earlier, a hulking pig‑tailed macaque had stormed through the clearing, furious at unseen rivals and quick to vent his rage on the weakest life nearby. With a brutal sweep of his arm, he knocked the baby sideways, brittle ribs thudding against a tangle of roots. Shock froze the infant’s wide eyes before pain arrived like fire, ripping a desperate wail from his throat.
No mother answered. She had darted up the canopy, screaming futile threats as the aggressor pinned her path. The baby’s cry rose again—shrill, hiccupping, endlessly pleading. Each sob seemed to ask the trees themselves why kindness had abandoned him. Ants stirred under fallen leaves; squirrels peered, then fled. Even the cicadas fell silent, as if nature recognized sorrow too deep for song. Nearby juveniles watched, their anxious chatter betraying fear of future violence looming.
The macaque returned, snatching the infant’s thin tail, jerking it hard, dragging him through dust. Tiny hands flailed, grabbing nothing. A smear of ochre blood marked every inch the baby slid. When the bully tired, he tossed the limp body aside like spoiled fruit and swaggered off, satisfied.
For long terrible minutes the forest held its breath. At last, rustling fronds announced the mother’s descent. She gathered her shaking child, licking grit from his face, cooing soft syllables he barely heard over his own hoarse sobs. Her eyes brimmed but remained unbroken; inside them burned a fierce vow that tomorrow’s light would not find her unaware again. Mother and baby vanished into the thick vines, leaving only fading echoes—the plaintive memory of a cry no creature should ever have to voice.
