I first saw Anissa before sunrise in the dense green shadows at the edge of the Angkor forest, where long-tailed macaques rise with the mist among ancient stone. She was tiny and cautious, her big curious eyes following every sound — birdsong, leaves rustling, distant footsteps. That morning, I watched her try to climb a fallen root, her little hand trembling on the slick bark, as though the soft earth beneath her was a challenge not of strength, but of heart.
For a long moment, she looked up at me with what felt like a question — not fear, but a search for safety in that wide world full of strangers with phones and cameras. In that stillness I learned something about innocence: it doesn’t hide when watched, it simply hopes to be seen kindly. Later, she found her family again, returning to the familiar warmth of their calls echoing through the trees. In that forest, life weaves quiet resilience into every dawn.
