I still hear the echo of that brittle snap — the sickening crack of a small branch giving way, followed by an awful, tumbling thud through the greenery. And then, a tiny, terrified cry.
It was late afternoon in the sacred forest surrounding Angkor Wat. The golden sun filtered through ancient stone towers, painting long, dappled shadows on mossy tree trunks and silent paths. I had ventured there that day, camera in hand, hoping to catch a few candid shots of monkeys playing among centuries-old ruins. What I witnessed instead stopped my breath.
A young monkey — no more than a few months old — clung nimbly to a thin branch high above. His eyes sparkled with innocent curiosity as he glanced down at the world below. For a moment, he froze: perhaps mesmerized by distant temple bells or the rustling of leaves. Then the branch cracked.
Time slowed. The little creature lost his grip.
He fell.
Through the tangle of vines, the fall seemed eternal — until he landed on packed earth with a soft grunt. Silence.
I raced forward, dread twisting in my chest. As I approached, I saw him trembling. Big, frightened eyes gazing up. His little body curled inward, as if trying to protect something precious from pain.
I knelt, barely daring to breathe, and whispered, “Baby Jacee, are you okay?”
He did not respond. He simply looked at me — lost, frightened, broken.
I gently placed out a hand, but he flinched. A few tentative seconds passed before he crawled into a crouched ball.
Instinct told me to stay calm, to speak softly. I inched closer, offering a small banana I had in my bag (for monkeys I often feed nearby). With shaking limbs, he reached out, taking the fruit with a fragile, hesitant motion. As he bit into it, his small body trembled — hunger, fear, confusion all mixed in one.
I stayed with him, my heart heavy, for what felt like hours. The forest was eerily quiet; even the wind seemed to hold its breath. In that silence, I heard his soft whimpers.
Little by little, the banana vanished. With it, a soft sigh — like a fragile exhale. He looked around, as though trying to understand where he was, what had happened. His eyes locked on me again: sorrow, vulnerability, trust — mingled in a gaze that haunted me.
I whispered again, “Baby Jacee… you’re safe now.”
But could I really promise safety in a forest built on ancient secrets and wild unpredictability?
I gently brushed away a speck of dirt from his paw. My fingers felt sticky, warm. He flinched at first, then relaxed slightly. The first sign of trust.
As twilight crept in, the forest transformed. Long shadows lengthened, and cooler air stirred the leaves overhead. I made a small makeshift bed for him — leaves, soft moss, a bit of cloth from my bag. I stayed until darkness embraced the temples, till the world felt as still as his breathing.
In the early morning hush, soft light crept across the forest floor. Baby Jacee stirred. He looked around. Blinked. Then — unsteadily — he tried to stand. His legs wobbled. His eyes darted. For a moment, I thought he’d fall again.
But then — with the gentle strength of survival — he found his balance.
He didn’t leap up like nothing had happened. He moved slowly, carefully. His little brow furrowed, as though remembering the fall, the fear. But he moved.
As I watched him disappear among ancient roots and temple stones, I felt something heavy lift — a fragile hope.
