The early morning sun filtered softly through the curtains of Aria’s small wooden home, nestled at the edge of the forest. She had moved to this quiet village only six months earlier, hoping for peace after years of city noise and endless deadlines. As a new mother to her four-month-old daughter, Nami, she cherished the slower pace of life—the gentle breezes, the birdsong, and the warm sense of community.
But peace was rarely predictable.
That morning, as Aria prepared rice porridge for Nami, a frantic knocking echoed through her door. She hurried to open it, finding her young neighbor, Hali, breathless and visibly distressed.
“Miss Aria!” he gasped. “Come quick—two baby monkeys… newborn ones… They’re crying in the ditch near the banana grove!”
Aria blinked, stunned. “Newborn monkeys? Alone?”
“Yes! They’re so small. I don’t think the mother is anywhere.”
Without hesitation, Aria wrapped Nami in a sling across her chest, grabbed a soft towel, and followed Hali down the narrow path toward the grove. The morning air was cool, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil. But another scent lingered too—something faintly metallic, like old rust. It worried her.
They reached the edge of the grove, where old irrigation trenches cut through the soil. And there, lying in a shallow muddy ditch, were two newborn baby monkeys.
Aria’s breath caught.
They were tiny—far smaller than she imagined newborn monkeys could be. Their limbs were thin and trembling, their eyes half-closed, their fur still patchy. One lay curled around the other, both shivering from the cold. Their weak cries rose and fell like fading breaths of wind.
“Oh you poor little ones…” Aria whispered.
With calm, deliberate movements, she knelt beside them. Nami, pressed securely against her chest, looked down curiously, sensing the tender urgency in her mother’s touch.
“Have you seen any adult monkeys nearby?” Aria asked.
Hali shook his head. “No. I checked the trees. It’s silent.”
Aria frowned. Mother monkeys rarely abandoned newborns. Something must have frightened the troop away—or worse, something happened near the grove during the night. Whatever the cause, these infants were now alone.
Aria dipped her fingers into the ditch; the mud was cool. Too cool for newborns.
“They won’t survive out here,” she murmured. “We need to warm them immediately.”
She gently lifted the twins one by one, wrapping them in the towel and holding them close to her body heat. Their cries softened, their tiny fingers twitching.
“Let’s take them to my house,” she said. “I know how to keep them warm until the wildlife team arrives.”
Hali nodded eagerly and ran ahead to open the door for her.
Inside, Aria set the towel-wrapped twins near the hearth, where she quickly lit a small fire to warm the room. She placed the newborn monkeys on her lap, still wrapped snugly, and rubbed their backs gently to stimulate their circulation.
Nami watched with wide eyes, her small hand reaching out as if offering comfort to the tiny creatures sharing her mother’s warmth.
Aria smiled softly. “You’re going to be a kind big sister today, aren’t you?”
Gradually, the trembling of the baby monkeys eased. One of them—whom Aria mentally named Milo—softly nuzzled into the towel. The other, Mira, made faint squeaks but seemed responsive.
Aria knew they needed feeding soon. But newborn monkeys required precise formula—not cow or goat milk, which could harm them. She reached for her phone and called the village wildlife volunteer coordinator, Jovan.
“Two newborn monkeys?!” he exclaimed. “I’ll bring the formula and equipment. Keep them warm.”
“I am,” Aria promised. “Hurry, please.”
While waiting, she cradled the twins against her chest as she swayed gently—a natural motion she often used to calm Nami. To her surprise, the twins relaxed even more at the movement. The familiarity of a maternal rhythm seemed instinctively comforting.
Nami began babbling softly, leaning closer. Aria allowed her daughter to touch Milo’s tiny hand, guiding her gently.
“Careful, love,” she whispered. “They’re very small.”
Nami’s eyes sparkled with innocent wonder.
A knock sounded at the door. Jovan had arrived with a bag of neonatal monkey rescue supplies. His expression softened as he saw the scene: Aria seated on the floor, Nami in her sling, two tiny monkeys bundled close to her heart.
“You’re a natural,” he said warmly.
“I’m just doing what any mother would,” Aria replied.
Together, they prepared the formula. Jovan demonstrated the careful method: a warmed syringe, slow drops, careful pacing. Milo accepted the feeding first, sucking weakly but steadily. Mira needed more time, her mouth barely opening, but after patient coaxing, she too accepted nourishment.
Aria held Mira while feeding her, humming a soft lullaby—the same one she sang to Nami every night. The newborn monkey’s breathing slowed, her small fingers curling around Aria’s shirt.
After the feeding, Jovan examined the twins. “They’re dehydrated and underweight,” he said, “but they’re responding well. They’ll need to stay at your home for the next few hours until the transport team arrives. It’s safer here.”
“You can count on me,” Aria said.
For the rest of the afternoon, Aria alternated between caring for Nami and tending to the baby monkeys. She warmed them, checked their breathing, hummed lullabies, and kept the room dim and calm. Milo began stretching his legs. Mira nestled deeper into the towel, her eyes barely opening but more content than before.
Jovan couldn’t help but smile. “They were lucky you found them,” he said.
Aria shook her head softly. “No. I was lucky they found me.”
When evening approached, the rehabilitation team arrived to take Milo and Mira to the wildlife center. Aria handed them over gently, her heart swelling with both sadness and hope.
“Grow strong,” she whispered. “The forest is waiting for you.”
Nami cooed softly, waving her tiny hand as the twins were carried away.
Aria closed the door, held her daughter close, and smiled.
A mother’s heart, she realized, has room for more than she ever imagined.
