The dawn light filtered through the moss-covered stones of Angkor Wat’s ancient forest as I stumbled upon the most heart-wrenching sight I’ve ever witnessed. A barely-born monkey, trembling and alone, lay curled at the foot of a silent banyan tree, its tiny chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The morning mist wove around the carvings of old Khmer gods, as if the spirits themselves held their breath for his fate.
I hovered, torn between the urge to flee and the primal call to help. He was so small—barely the size of a human fist—with fur dampened by dew, eyes squeezed tight. Something powerful surged in me. I leaned closer, whispering gentle words I wasn’t even sure he’d understand. Yet, the soft quiver of his body told me I had made a connection.
I watched with tears as the recorded moment played. Tiny hands reaching. A desperate, newborn call echoing through stone-lined corridors. In that instant, I was transported back to that spring morning, the smell of wet earth grounding me to the present. Every flutter of wings, every falling leaf, felt like part of his story—one of abandonment, resilience, and quiet hope.
I wrapped him gently in my scarf, cradle-like, seeking shelter from the cold. The forest around us seemed to pulse with life: a hornbill’s cry, a rustle of unseen creatures. I carried him toward a patch of golden sunlight. Each hesitant step felt like answering a silent promise: you will not face this alone.
