The forest woke slowly that morning. Sunlight filtered through the tall trees of Angkor, landing in soft patches on the forest floor where Binya lay unusually still. I had seen her many times before—small, curious, always tucked close to her mother’s side. But today, the rhythm of the forest felt different.
Her mother arrived first. She moved carefully, almost cautiously, as if hoping the scene before her might change if she approached slowly enough. She sat beside Binya, brushing her fingers through the baby’s fur the way she always had. The gesture was familiar, practiced, and full of care. But Binya did not respond.
Around them, the forest continued its quiet routines. Leaves shifted. Birds called from a distance. Other monkeys paused briefly, watching without sound. There was no panic, no sudden movement—only a stillness that felt heavy in its calm.
Binya’s mother stayed close for a long time. She adjusted the baby’s position gently, lifting her slightly, then settling her back down. It was not denial—it felt more like remembrance, as if she were tracing every detail she might soon need to carry only in memory.
As the hours passed, the sun climbed higher. The light warmed the stones and roots around them, and Binya remained part of the forest she had known since her first breath. Her mother eventually sat upright, Binya resting against her chest, as if held one final time.
What struck me most was the silence. Not empty silence, but a respectful one. The forest did not rush her. Nothing demanded that she move on before she was ready.
By late morning, her mother rose and placed Binya gently near the base of a tree. She paused, looking back more than once before disappearing into the greenery. The forest closed around the space again, leaves swaying softly above.
Binya’s life was brief, but it was not unseen. It was held, protected, and remembered—by her mother, by the forest, and by those who stood quietly nearby, learning once again how deeply animals feel loss.
