The forest was unusually still that morning, as if it already knew something important had happened. Beneath the tall roots near Angkor Wat, Karita sat quietly, her arms wrapped around something impossibly small. No sounds of alarm. No movement of panic. Just breath, warmth, and time slowing down.
She had given birth sometime before sunrise. When the light finally reached the forest floor, the baby was already pressed close to her chest, learning the rhythm of her heartbeat. Karita barely moved, adjusting only enough to keep her newborn safe and warm.
Other monkeys watched from a respectful distance. No one rushed her. No one interrupted. It felt like an unspoken agreement — this moment belonged to her.
From where I stood, it wasn’t dramatic. It was gentle. Ordinary. And somehow extraordinary because of that. A mother doing what mothers have always done here, generation after generation, beneath the same trees.
Life didn’t announce itself loudly. It simply arrived, breathing softly, held carefully, as the forest carried on around them.
