I never imagined I’d feel such sorrow beneath the moss-covered stones of Angkor Wat. The morning air felt sacred, heavy with humidity and the faint echo of temple bells somewhere deep in the jungle. I was there that day as the dawn-mist curled between ancient towers and trees — but I left carrying grief that no temple shadow could console.
The troop had gathered as usual, moving slowly through roots and temple walls. Then one of the females — we called her “Viola” — blessed us all: she had just delivered a baby. A hush spread like a soft wave through the group. The baby’s first cry was shy, fragile — but oh, how filled with hope. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
I crouched nearby, careful not to intrude, but close enough to see. Viola cradled her newborn: gentle, protective, full of life. For a moment, time stood still — leaves rustled softly, a distant bird called, even the wind softened. In that perfect, fragile instant, I thought the world had never felt so beautiful.
But minutes later, something changed. Viola’s breathing grew ragged, her eyes glazed over. The baby chirped softly, trying to nuzzle, but Viola could only stare blankly ahead. The air vibrated with sorrow — I could almost sense it. Another female approached and touched Viola’s back. Viola trembled, but did not respond.
Suddenly, Viola slumped. Her arms loosened around her baby. The newborn slipped, fell — fallen on cold stone, innocent and soft. The other monkeys froze. Silence settled fast, heavy as grief. I felt my own breath catch in my throat.
Time stretched. The baby remained still. I dared not rise. I dared not even blink.
Other females — sisters and cousins — gathered around. Some reached tentatively for the baby, as if to comfort. Others looked to Viola, hoping for a sign. But the mother was gone.
I forced myself to stand only when the troop slowly moved on, dragging me with them. I stayed. I sat among fallen leaves and ancient roots. The jungle — the forest I loved — felt hollow. Sad. Empty where life should have glowed.
At night, I still heard that baby’s faint, trembling cry echo in my mind. And I wondered: would he survive? Could someone — nature or a stranger — intervene? Or would he slip away like pure hope falling from the canopy?
I know I’m human. I know I don’t belong in their jungle. But that day, watching Viola die after giving birth — under the silent eyes of Angkor’s stones — I felt the rawest ache of living and losing. And I came to remember that sorrow like that crosses the boundaries between species. Love, loss, grief — they belong to all.
