The sun had barely lifted above the treetops, its golden rays spilling across the jungle canopy like honey. Morning mist curled low over the forest floor, and somewhere in the distance, the chattering of birds slowly roused the day.
Down by the lake, on a smooth, flat rock warmed by first light, sat a baby monkey. Alone.
His name, if he’d been given one, was unknown to the world. To his troop, he had simply been a tiny thing — clinging to his mother’s chest, his large eyes watching the world with innocent wonder. He was no older than a few months, his fur still soft like dandelion fluff, his tiny fingers grasping instinctively at whatever felt safe.
But now, he sat by the lake, alone.
The water lapped gently at the edges of the shore, whispering secrets only the trees could understand. The little monkey didn’t cry. He didn’t call. He just stared across the rippling surface, as if somewhere out there — beyond the reeds and lilies — his mother might return, stepping out of the water like a dream.
The morning passed slowly.
A dragonfly zipped by, its wings a blur. Frogs croaked lazily from the shadows, and a family of ducks drifted past, the mother guiding her ducklings with soft nudges. The baby monkey watched them, unmoving. His small hands rested on the warm stone. He had sat there since dawn, refusing to leave.
Behind him, the jungle pulsed with life. But here, at the edge of the lake, it felt like time had paused — just for him.
He remembered the last moments with her. The way she had held him close as they moved through the treetops. The sweet scent of her fur. Her heartbeat, steady and sure, beneath his cheek. Then… the alarm calls. The panic. The stampede of bodies through the underbrush. He remembered being knocked loose, tumbling from her grip.
When he scrambled back to where he’d last seen her, she was gone.
At first, he had cried. Called out. Searched. But the forest is large, and a baby monkey is so very small.
So he came to the lake — the one place he remembered clearly. A quiet place. A place she liked to sit and drink while he played with fallen leaves. He waited.
Hours passed.
His stomach rumbled. He had not eaten since yesterday. Hunger curled in his belly, but he didn’t move. The fear of leaving this spot — in case she came back — was greater than the ache of emptiness.
A gentle wind stirred the leaves. The sun moved higher, casting brighter light on the water’s surface. The baby monkey’s eyes drooped. Sleep tugged at him, but he fought it. What if she came while he was asleep?
A squirrel darted nearby, pausing to sniff the air. It tilted its head at the little figure on the rock, but sensing no threat, it continued on its way. A butterfly landed briefly on the monkey’s shoulder. He didn’t notice.
By midday, the sky was a blazing blue. Still, he sat.
It wasn’t until a curious macaque — not from his troop — appeared at the treeline that something changed. The older monkey watched him with mild curiosity, head tilted, eyes cautious. The baby looked up, but didn’t approach. The adult crept closer, sniffing the air, sensing the loneliness, the vulnerability.
She had seen orphans before.
With a soft grunt, she approached and sat a short distance away. They sat in silence for a while. The baby monkey glanced at her, unsure. He didn’t reach out. She didn’t push. She just sat, offering silent company.
When she eventually left, he didn’t follow.
He stayed.
Afternoon came and went. Clouds began to gather. A breeze picked up, cooler now. Somewhere overhead, the cries of distant howler monkeys echoed across the canopy. The lake darkened slightly under the shifting sky.
A droplet of rain hit the rock.
Then another.
Soon, it was a gentle shower, pattering on the leaves and stone. The baby monkey blinked up at the sky, eyes wide. Water trickled down his fur, but he didn’t move. The world felt even more empty in the rain.
But still, he waited.
Night would come soon. The jungle changes when the sun goes down — it becomes less forgiving. The shadows deepen, the predators stir. A baby monkey alone at night is a dangerous thing.
And yet he didn’t leave.
Because hope, even in the smallest heart, is a powerful thing.
Maybe she would come. Maybe she would burst through the trees, calling his name in frantic relief. Maybe he would run into her arms, and everything would be okay.
He could almost hear her voice in the rustling of the leaves. Almost feel her warmth in the wind.
The rain stopped. A hush fell over the lake again. The clouds parted just enough for the setting sun to paint the sky in streaks of orange and pink.
The little monkey shifted slightly. He hugged his knees to his chest, rocking gently. His eyes, wide and glistening, scanned the trees.
No movement.
Still, he waited.
Because he didn’t know what else to do.
The forest would forget him. The ducks would move on. The sun would rise again tomorrow. But in this moment, on this day, on this lonely rock by the lake, a baby monkey waited for his mother.
And that tiny, aching hope — that she might come back — kept him there.
