I’ll never forget that morning in the ancient Angkor forest — the sun peeking through the towering canopy, birds calling softly, the scent of damp earth rising with each gentle breeze. I had been walking down the shaded path near the old stone ruins when I heard it: a tiny, strained cry, barely more than a whisper, but full of raw longing.
I stopped mid-step.
At first, I thought it was the wind. But then I heard it again — a fragile, persistent call that tugged deeply at something inside me. I followed the sound, heart pounding, until I found her.
There she was — a tiny baby monkey, no bigger than a small bundle of leaves, curled around the smooth bark of a tree stump. Her limbs were trembling, her eyes wide with fear, and every now and then, she’d reach out and clutch the trunk like it was her only lifeline.
She wasn’t just holding a tree.
She was holding on to hope.
Near the roots lay the faint imprint of what had been — or what should have been — her family. Broken twigs and scattered leaves told the story of separation: a frantic scramble, perhaps, of frightened chases, unseen predators, or even the careless steps of tourists too close to the forest’s edge.
The baby’s eyes met mine, and suddenly the whole jungle seemed to hush. No rustling birds, no dancing leaves — just her and that fierce survival instinct reflected in her gaze.
For what felt like an eternity, she clung to the tree trunk as though it were her mother’s arms, as though the tree might whisper back its ancient wisdom to soothe her quaking heart.
“I’m here,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.
I slowly eased closer, mindful not to frighten her. But she didn’t waver — she barely blinked. The sense of abandonment was palpable, as if the world had shrunk down to that one small patch of forest and that one small creature. In her eyes was the question: Where is my mommy?
Around us, Angkor’s moss-covered ruins stood silent and indifferent, age-old stones that had seen centuries pass. But in that moment, all that mattered was this tiny life — raw and unguarded in its need.
I reached out my hand, shaky with emotion. She flinched — as any wild creature would — but didn’t retreat. Then, slowly, almost as if sensing kindness, she shifted her little body, still clinging to the tree, but now aware of me standing beside her.
Her call wavered, not as loud now, but softer — like a melody of longing.
We waited there together, me and the little one, until someone from the sanctuary volunteers arrived. They had come after locals reported seeing the tiny monkey wandering alone. As they gently cradled her, I saw again how she reached for something familiar — like a child reaching for a lullaby long forgotten.
She didn’t want to be picked up. She wanted her mother.
That was the truth in her eyes.
As I watched them carry her away — into a shaded van where they would try to nourish her, calm her, and later return her to a safe group of monkeys — I felt both the ache of loss and the quiet flame of hope.
You see, sometimes hope takes the shape of an outstretched hand.
Other times, it clings to an old tree in the heart of an ancient forest.
And once in a while, hope comes in the form of a stranger who stops, listens, and cares.
