The morning air in the Angkor Wat forest was still, broken only by the soft movement of leaves above us. I noticed her sitting low on a stone edge, one hand gripping the roots beneath her, the other resting against her belly. She didn’t cry out. She didn’t run. She stayed.
What unfolded happened slowly, almost gently, but not as nature usually intends. Her body worked hard, guided by instinct older than the temple stones themselves. She leaned back, then forward again, pausing as if listening to something only she could hear.
Other monkeys watched from a distance. No calls. No warnings. Just quiet awareness.
When it was over, she remained where she was, breathing shallowly, eyes scanning the ground beneath her. She reached back once, then again, careful and unsure. The forest seemed to hold its breath with her.
After a while, she stood and moved toward the trees, not in panic, but in acceptance. Life continued around her—birds calling, leaves shifting—but something tender had passed through the morning and left its mark.
Some moments aren’t meant to be loud. They’re meant to be remembered.
