The morning in Angkor Wat began without ceremony. Soft light moved between the trees, and the troop settled into familiar rhythms. Then a sound rose—thin, sharp, unmistakable.
A baby monkey had been separated, held briefly by another troop member during a tense moment of confusion. The infant’s cry carried through the vines, not loud, but urgent. It was the kind of sound that doesn’t search for help—it expects it.
From the canopy, the mother reacted instantly.
She didn’t hesitate or scan the ground. She moved with purpose, crossing branches with a speed shaped by instinct and memory. Her eyes never left the sound. Around her, the forest seemed to pause, as if giving her space to pass.
When she reached her baby, the moment was quiet again. No struggle followed. She gathered the infant close, pressing him into her chest, rocking once as if to remind him—and herself—that he was safe.
The troop slowly returned to its morning. Leaves rustled. Sunlight resumed its work.
But for a moment, the forest had listened.
And a mother had answered.
