At first light, the forest felt unusually quiet, as if every leaf was holding its breath. Old Mama Pigtail clung to a high branch, her long tail wrapped tight for balance. Below her, the ground waited in shadows. In her arms lay a newborn, only one day old, eyes still sealed by sleep, tiny fingers curling in reflex. This should have been a moment of warmth and bonding, but something was terribly wrong.
Mama’s body trembled. Age had slowed her, and fear clouded her instincts. The troop had moved on, the calls growing faint. Hunger gnawed at her, and confusion tugged at her heart. She looked down, then away, then down again. The newborn whimpered softly, a fragile sound that should have pulled her closer. Instead, Mama stiffened, torn between survival and care.
Witnessing this moment felt unbearable. The forest seemed to lean inward as Mama loosened her grip. For a breathless second, time stretched thin. The baby slipped from her arms, falling through leaves and light, the world rushing past in a blur of green and brown. The sound of the fall echoed, sharp and final, cutting through the morning calm.
Silence followed. Mama froze, staring downward, her face unreadable—shock, regret, or emptiness. She did not climb down. She did not call. Slowly, she turned and climbed higher, disappearing into the canopy as if the moment could be left behind.
On the forest floor, life waited between fear and hope. Tiny breaths still moved a small chest. Ants paused. Birds watched. The newborn’s cry, weak but real, rose again. It was a reminder that even after rejection and abandonment, life can cling stubbornly to its fragile beginning.
This first sight of loss was heartbreaking—but it also carried a quiet plea: to see, to care, and to protect the most vulnerable when nature falters.
