The golden savanna stretched far and wide under the fading light of dusk. A herd of zebras grazed peacefully, their black and white stripes blending into the tall grass. Among them was a mother zebra named Luma, always vigilant, always close to her newborn calf. The calf, barely a week old, was still wobbly on its legs, curious but cautious, never straying far from its mother’s side.
But danger lurked nearby.
A pack of hyenas watched from the shadows, eyes glowing with hunger and cunning. They had been following the herd all day, waiting for darkness and weakness. And now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, they made their move.
With terrifying speed, the hyenas charged. The herd bolted in a flurry of hooves and dust. Luma tried to run, her calf struggling to keep up. She circled back, kicking and snorting, doing everything to protect her baby. But the hyenas were too many, too fast, and too relentless.
They surrounded the calf. Luma fought with all her strength, biting and kicking furiously. Her cries echoed across the plains—raw, panicked, and full of grief. But it was no use. The calf was taken, and the mother was left bruised and broken.
Still, Luma did not flee.
She stayed, trembling, bloodied, and defeated, as if hoping her presence could somehow change what had already happened. She called out softly, again and again, for a calf that would never answer. Her body stood in the grass, but her spirit seemed lost in that moment.
The wild does not pause for grief. The herd moved on. The night grew colder. Alone under the stars, the mother zebra mourned not just her calf—but herself, the part of her heart that was taken too.
