The morning light slipped gently through the tall trees near Angkor Wat, touching the forest floor without sound. She had moved only a short distance from the group, settling beside a moss-covered stone, her newborn pressed close to her chest.
He was impossibly small. His fingers curled and uncurled against her fur as if learning the world by touch alone. She did not rush him. She did not move. Every breath she took seemed measured, careful, as though the forest itself were watching.
Around them, birds continued their routines. Leaves shifted. Life went on. But for that moment, her world narrowed to the rise and fall of his breathing.
She leaned her head down, resting her cheek against his crown. It was not protection born of fear, but of understanding. She knew how quickly the forest demands strength. She also knew this was not yet his time to give it.
So she stayed still. She listened for danger and promise alike. And before the day fully arrived, she gave him what every newborn deserves first — closeness, warmth, and the quiet certainty that he was not alone.
