The forest at dawn was usually full of lively sounds—birds calling to one another, leaves rustling under light paws, branches swaying as monkeys leapt between them. But this morning, a strange quiet lingered over one small clearing, as though the forest itself held its breath.
Beneath a cluster of tall bamboo, two tiny newborn monkeys lay close together on a bed of damp leaves. They were twins, hardly days old, their fur still thin, their eyes only beginning to open. But their expressions—fragile, confused, and deeply sad—told a story no words could.
The larger one, Miko, trembled softly, letting out small, broken squeaks that rose and fell like the faintest questions. The smaller one, Mira, pressed herself tightly against him, her breathing uneven as she clung to her brother for comfort. Both were hungry. Both were cold. Both looked around as though waiting for someone they desperately needed.
But no mother appeared.
Something had happened during the night—perhaps a sudden storm, a predator’s presence, or a chaotic moment within the troop—and somehow, the twins had been left behind. Alone in the wild, newborn monkeys had little chance of survival. They needed milk every few hours, warmth at all times, and the constant touch of their mother’s arms.
Now, Miko and Mira curled under the bamboo, their tiny arms wrapped around each other, their sadness heavy and silent.
As hours passed, the sun rose higher, warming the forest floor. But the heat did not comfort the twins. Instead, they grew weaker. Mira let out a soft whimper that faded into silence. Miko tried to call out again, but his voice cracked midway.
They were too young to understand loss, but their bodies felt it clearly—the emptiness in their stomachs, the chill in the air, the loneliness.
It might have been their last morning if not for the sound of footsteps approaching on the nearby path.
Amaya, a wildlife volunteer, often walked this route to check on fruiting trees and refill water stations. She carried a basket of supplies slung across her back and hummed softly as she walked. But halfway through the clearing, she stopped abruptly.
A tiny, trembling cry floated to her ears.
“That’s… not a bird,” she whispered, frowning.
She stepped carefully toward the sound, pushing aside a curtain of bamboo. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Oh no… babies?”
There, curled like fallen petals, were Miko and Mira.
Amaya knelt slowly, not wanting to startle them. The twins were too weak to move, but their eyes flickered toward her presence. Mira let out a faint squeak—barely a sound, but it carried so much sadness that Amaya felt her heart sink.
“You poor little ones,” she whispered, voice trembling. “How long have you been here?”
She reached out her hands, warming them first by rubbing them together. Then she lifted the twins carefully, one at a time, supporting their fragile bodies. Miko’s head wobbled weakly. Mira curled instantly into Amaya’s palm, as though relieved to feel warmth again.
“They’re starving…” Amaya murmured. “And look at their eyes… so tired, so sad.”
She glanced around the forest, calling softly in case a mother monkey lingered nearby. But no troop answered. No movement broke the stillness. The forest remained silent.
The twins let out tiny, pitiful whimpers, their hunger overwhelming their fear.
“All right, little ones,” Amaya said gently. “You’re coming with me. I’ll help you.”
She tucked them carefully into the front of her vest, letting them rest against her chest so they could feel her warmth and heartbeat. Mira burrowed deeper instantly. Miko pressed his cheek to the fabric, eyes half-closing.
“You’re safe now,” Amaya whispered as she began walking quickly toward the rescue center.
The path felt longer than usual. Every few minutes, she checked to be sure the twins were still breathing. Their tiny bodies quivered weakly, but they held onto her vest with the last bits of their strength.
When she reached the center, the door swung open as soon as she called for help.
Dr. Soren, the senior caretaker, hurried over. “What did you find?”
“Twins,” Amaya said, voice shaking. “Newborns. Alone. Very sad and weak.”
Dr. Soren didn’t waste a second. “Bring them inside.”
The twins were placed under a warm lamp, wrapped in soft cloth, and checked carefully. Despite their weakness, their hearts were steady—but their stomachs were painfully empty. Their limbs were cold. Their eyes barely stayed open.
Mira made a quiet, broken sound, as though asking for her mother.
Miko tried to curl toward her but lacked the strength.
“It’s all right,” Dr. Soren murmured, preparing warm formula. “They’ll need tiny amounts first. Slow and steady.”
Amaya sat beside them, her eyes soft with compassion. “They were holding each other when I found them. So sad. So lost. Poor little things…”
When the milk was ready, Amaya lifted Miko first. He whimpered, his face scrunching with emotion. He wanted the milk—his body begged for it—but he was too tired to open his mouth fully.
“He’s exhausted,” Amaya murmured. “He’s trying.”
Dr. Soren guided her. “Just touch the drop to his lips. His instinct will do the rest.”
She did.
And Miko, with a faint tremble, began to suck. Weakly, slowly, but he drank.
His eyes closed halfway as if overwhelmed—not just by hunger, but by relief. The sadness in his expression softened as warmth spread through his tiny belly.
Mira was next.
She was even weaker. Her lips barely moved at first. A small tear clung to her eyelash, trembling.
“Sweetheart…” Amaya whispered. “You’re safe. Drink a little.”
After a long pause, Mira latched onto the milk and swallowed. Her tiny fingers curled around Amaya’s thumb as though anchoring herself to comfort.
Both twins fed in tiny sips, drifting in and out of half-sleep, their sadness slowly melting into relief.
When they finally finished, they curled together in their blanket, their breathing steady and calm. Miko rested his head on Mira’s side. Mira tucked her face beneath his chin.
Amaya stroked their backs gently. “You two have been so brave.”
Dr. Soren nodded. “They will heal. They’re together—just as twins should be.”
As the soft evening light filtered into the room, the twins slept peacefully, no longer cold, no longer hungry, no longer alone. Their sadness, while not forgotten, had begun to fade.
In a world that had briefly turned frightening and empty, they had found warmth again.
