In the quiet hours of the morning, when the forest usually hums with gentle life, a troubling scene unfolds once more. Libby, the mother who should be Little Rainbow’s safest place, turns away with a hardness that feels heavier each day. Little Rainbow, small and bright-eyed, reaches out with trembling hands, hoping for warmth, hoping for comfort—but hope is met with cold distance.
At first, it’s subtle. Libby shifts her body, blocking access, pretending not to notice the soft cries behind her. Little Rainbow clings to her side, confused and frightened, unsure why love feels so far away. The baby’s colorful spirit—once lively and curious—dims slightly with every rejection. Each ignored plea seems to teach a painful lesson too early: survival sometimes comes without tenderness.
As the hours pass, Libby’s behavior grows harsher. A sharp push here, a warning glance there. No softness, no patience. Observers can’t help but feel their hearts tighten as Little Rainbow stumbles, regains balance, and tries again. The resilience is there, fragile but real, glowing like a faint rainbow after a storm. Still, resilience should never have to replace care.
What hurts most is the silence. No gentle grooming. No reassuring touch. Just distance. Little Rainbow curls inward, conserving energy, watching the world with wide, questioning eyes. The forest doesn’t judge, but it remembers—and so do we.
Yet even in this cruelty, a quiet truth remains: Little Rainbow is still here. Breathing. Learning. Enduring. The cold may shape the days, but it doesn’t erase the spark within. Somewhere between fear and hope, Little Rainbow holds on, waiting for a moment of kindness—whether from Libby, the troop, or fate itself.
