Deep in the tangled shadows of the jungle, a tiny baby monkey lay trembling beneath a fig tree. His name was Nilo. Just a few weeks old, his fur was still soft and patchy, and his cries were thin and weak. Something was terribly wrong. His small body shook uncontrollably, his limbs twitching as if gripped by an unseen force. The other monkeys in the troop glanced his way but did not come closer. To them, Nilo was a burden, a weak link in the wild rhythm of survival.
Nilo was having a seizure—something none of the monkeys truly understood. All they saw was his helplessness, and they turned their backs, afraid and unsure. His mother had disappeared days earlier, perhaps taken by a predator or forced away by the stronger females. Since then, Nilo had been alone, fending for himself in a world far too cruel for a baby so small.
As the sun filtered through the leaves above, Nilo’s cries echoed through the trees—soft, broken, and full of pain. His eyes, large and watery, searched the canopy for comfort, but no one came. His tiny hands grasped at the air, trying to find something—anything—to hold onto.
Despite his suffering, there was a spark of life still flickering inside him. The jungle is harsh, but sometimes, even the weakest survive. A passing bird landed nearby, curious. A breeze rustled the branches. For a moment, the world paused, as if recognizing his pain.
Nilo looked so pitiful, so small and fragile, yet still alive. His misery was clear, but within him, the will to endure quietly grew. In a place where only the strong thrive, even the most miserable cry can echo with hope.
