The morning light filtered softly through the tall trees of the Angkor Wat forest, settling over a quiet patch of exposed roots. That’s where he sat—small, still, and watching.
At first, it didn’t seem unusual. Young monkeys often linger while their mothers forage nearby. But time stretched. The troop moved through the canopy, their shapes fading into the leaves, and still he stayed.
Every few moments, he turned his head toward the same narrow path, as if expecting a familiar figure to appear. His hands rested lightly on the roots, gripping nothing, just waiting.
A distant rustle would catch his attention. He’d straighten slightly, hopeful—but then settle again when nothing followed.
Later, a few passersby noticed him and paused. One left a small container of milk nearby. He didn’t rush to it. Not at first. He kept watching the path.
Eventually, hunger drew him closer. He drank slowly, glancing up between sips, still listening.
Even as the forest carried on around him, his focus never really changed. He wasn’t just sitting there.
He was waiting.
