dThe forest was quiet in the early morning, wrapped in pale mist and birdsong, when the tragedy first unfolded. Old MaMa pigtail clung to the highest branch of the fig tree, her fur thin and silvered by age. In her arms was a newborn—only one day old—so small that its fingers barely curled around a strand of her hair. The baby searched blindly for warmth and milk, making soft cries that trembled like leaves in the wind.
But something had changed in MaMa pigtail’s heart. Her eyes were tired, heavy with fear and hunger. She shifted her grip again and again, restless, as if the weight of new life pressed too hard on her fragile strength. Below, the ground waited, far and unforgiving.
The newborn cried louder, a tiny plea for comfort. For a moment, MaMa pigtail leaned down and touched the baby’s head, almost a kiss. That single second felt like hope. Then, without warning, she loosened her arms. The baby slipped—first slowly, then falling fast—through branches and air, a helpless bundle tumbling from the high tree.
The forest seemed to gasp. Leaves shook. Birds scattered. The cry broke into sharp, desperate sounds before landing in a soft bed of grass and fallen leaves. Miraculously, the newborn still moved, shaking, crying, alive but terrified and alone.
Above, MaMa pigtail turned away. She did not look back. Perhaps instinct ruled her, or perhaps exhaustion stole her love. No one truly knows what storms rage inside an old mother’s mind.
On the forest floor, the newborn lay abandoned, eyes squeezed shut, voice weak but stubborn. Life had begun with pain, rejection, and a fall from the sky. Yet even there, in fear and silence, the baby’s cry carried
