The late afternoon sun cast a warm golden glow across the small wildlife cottage, painting long, sleepy stripes across the floorboards. Inside, the quiet hum of the incubator blended with the soft crackle of the hearth. This was a place of safety, of healing, of beginnings—and today, it held a tiny life fighting exhaustion with every shallow breath.
The newborn monkey, hardly bigger than a small fruit, lay curled in a soft fleece blanket. His eyes were half-closed, his limbs too weak to stretch, his head wobbling when he tried to lift it. His name—given only hours earlier—was Timo, a gentle sound for a fragile little soul.
Found alone at the edge of the forest that morning, he had been brought to the center by a farmer who heard faint, desperate squeaks near a fallen log. Timo’s fur was damp, speckled with dirt, and his small belly was hollow from hunger. No mother had appeared. No troop called back when the farmer searched. Whatever had happened, Timo was alone in the world.
Now, in this warm cottage, he trembled softly from exhaustion.
Lani, the young caretaker assigned to Timo, sat beside his basket, her face full of compassion. She had tended injured animals before—birds with broken wings, fox cubs separated from their families—but newborn monkeys always pulled at her heart in a different way. They were so helpless, so dependent, so heartbreakingly innocent.
Poor Timo drifted in and out of weak, restless sleep, letting out tiny sounds whenever his body reminded him of hunger. But he was too tired to cry properly, too tired even to keep his eyes open.
Lani leaned close. “Sweet little one… You’re trying so hard,” she whispered. “Let’s help you drink a little, okay?”
She warmed a tiny bottle with special formula, testing the temperature on her wrist. Then she lifted Timo into her hands—carefully, gently, supporting his head. He leaned limply into her palm, eyelids fluttering with exhaustion.
“Timo,” she said softly, “you need milk to get strong. Just a little at a time.”
She touched the bottle’s tip to his lips.
At first, he didn’t respond. His mouth opened only slightly, more from instinct than awareness. His eyes drooped closed again, as if even this small action demanded more strength than he had left.
Lani worried for a moment. “Come on, sweetheart… try.”
She shifted him so his cheek rested against her warm wrist. Babies often fed better when they sensed a heartbeat or warmth similar to a mother’s. She hummed softly—a low, steady sound.
Timo’s tiny fingers twitched. Then, slowly, he opened his mouth again, nudging the bottle with faint determination.
“That’s it,” Lani breathed.
His lips closed around the tip. A droplet of milk touched his tongue.
He sucked.
Weakly. Slowly. But he sucked.
A rush of relief washed through Lani. “Good boy… you’re doing it.”
Timo managed a few swallows before pausing, eyes drooping once again. His head sagged forward, and his limbs relaxed limply against her palm.
Too tired.
Too hungry.
Too small.
But Lani didn’t give up. She lifted his chin with her fingertip so he wouldn’t lose his latch. She rested the bottle against her wrist to keep the milk steady. Timo blinked slowly, as though fighting sleep with all the strength in his tiny body.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You can close your eyes. I’ll help you.”
He did. His eyelids shut fully, but his mouth, guided by instinct and need, continued to suck quietly. Each swallow was delicate, almost imperceptible. His breathing grew steadier. The tension in his body softened.
“Poor baby,” Lani murmured. “So tired you can’t even stay awake to drink.”
She wiped a tiny drop of milk from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t open his eyes—not once. But he kept eating, slowly gaining strength from every droplet.
Minutes passed.
Timo drank half the bottle before his body went slack with the kind of deep exhaustion only newborns could feel. His small hands, once twitching, now rested peacefully. His feet loosened their curl. Even his tail, thin as a vine, stretched softly across Lani’s arm.
He finished swallowing the last tiny mouthful with a quiet sigh.
“That’s enough for now,” she whispered gently. “You did so well.”
She lifted him to her shoulder for a moment, allowing him to nuzzle against the crook of her neck. His breathing warmed her skin. His tiny heartbeat tapped faintly, fragile but steady.
He slept.
Not just lightly—but fully, safely, deeply. A tired newborn who had finally found warmth and milk and comfort after a day of fear and hunger.
Lani pressed her cheek to the top of his head. “You’re safe now, little one,” she whispered. “I promise you’ll never have to cry alone again.”
She carried him back to the incubator, laying him softly into the fleece-lined blanket. He curled instinctively into its warmth, eyes still closed, mouth relaxed in a peaceful curve. She tucked him in gently, smoothing the fur along his back.
For a moment, she simply watched him breathe.
He looked so tiny, so breakable, yet so full of fight. She marveled at how exhaustion had nearly overwhelmed him—and how he had still found the will to drink, even with eyes closed and body heavy from fatigue.
It was a reminder: even the smallest creatures had astonishing courage.
As the forest began to darken outside the windows, the room glowed softly with warmth. Timo slept soundly in his new home, belly full, body warm, heart steady. Lani sat beside him with her notebook, recording his feeding time and progress.
Asha, the senior caretaker, poked her head into the room. “How is our little one?”
“He was very tired,” Lani answered softly, “so tired he kept falling asleep while drinking. But he ate enough.”
Asha smiled. “He chose a good caretaker. They all do.”
Lani felt her chest warm. She looked at the tiny sleeping monkey again.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, “we’ll give you more milk. And soon you’ll be strong enough to open your eyes all the way.”
Timo stirred faintly in his sleep, his tiny fingers curling around the blanket’s edge.
And in that peaceful cottage, with dusk settling quietly beyond the window, a fragile life found safety.
