I still remember the moment as though it were yesterday, even though the forest seemed to hold its breath with me. I was walking on a narrow, moss-covered trail deep in the Angkor Wat forest, morning mist curling around the ancient stone ruins. The sounds of tropical birds and distant monkeys echoed through the trees—a peaceful, sacred place.
Then, suddenly: a sharp, pained cry. I froze. My heart thumped so loudly, I thought the forest would answer. I looked up, and there she was—little Lily, a baby monkey clinging to a thin branch high above. Her mother was nearby, alarmed, but too small to help. Branches swayed dangerously. And in a heartbeat, Lily lost her grip.
Time stretched impossibly long as she fell, tumbling through the dense canopy. It was about twenty meters — almost the height of a six-story building. I gasped, and for a sickening moment, I thought I’d seen her hurtling to her doom.
Then, a miracle: she landed with a thud into a thick cushion of vines and moss. My breath caught — she lay there, trembling, tiny chest rising and falling, but alive. My eyes filled with tears. I called out softly, expecting her to curl up, but she looked up at me with big, frightened eyes.
I crouched close, speaking gently. The forest felt ancient and wise, like it watched over her. A group of monks on a walking pilgrimage nearby rushed to help. Together, we fashioned a little sling with some cloth from our packs, and carried Lily to the clearing. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, highlighting her soft fur, her fragile limbs.
We waited for her mother, who eventually appeared, chattering anxiously. Lily reached out, stumbling slightly, and the mother wrapped her arms around her, nuzzling her gently. Always in the forest, you feel something sacred — like every life here matters deeply.
While Lily recovered, we stayed with her, offering fruit, water, and warm comfort. I sat beside her, awed by how small she was, yet how fierce her will to survive. In the days that followed, I returned. I’d bring bananas, coconut water, simple offerings — just to see her mother’s expression soften, to watch Lily, now steadier, hop from branch to branch.
Each morning, I’d watch sunrise over the temple stones, and she would clutch a vine nearby, as curious about me as I was about her. The forest had witnessed something extraordinary: a life saved, a bond strengthened. And as I walked away one last time, I felt a deep, quiet gratitude — for Lily, the monks, the forest, and for the fragile miracle of survival.
