Life began for little Alba under a sky that felt cold, even when the sun was warm. Born tiny and trembling, she reached for comfort with hands no bigger than leaves. But the arms she longed for never truly opened. Her mother, Anna, carried a hard look in her eyes, a face set like stone, as if love had forgotten the way back to her heart.
Each day, Alba tried again. She crawled closer, calling softly, hoping the sound would melt something inside her mother. Instead, she met rejection—sharp movements, sudden knocks, and a silence heavier than hunger. The forest watched, helpless, as the smallest life learned the hardest lesson too early: care is not always given just because it is needed.
Alba’s body bore the marks of neglect, but it was her spirit that struggled most. She learned to flinch at shadows and freeze at footsteps. Yet even then, there was a stubborn spark in her eyes. She watched other mothers groom and nurse their babies, memorizing tenderness like a story she might one day live.
Anna moved through the days distant and harsh, as if something inside her was broken long before Alba arrived. Perhaps fear, stress, or pain had built a wall she could not climb. The forest does not judge, but it remembers. And it remembers Alba—small, quiet, and brave.
In moments alone, Alba practiced hope. She warmed herself in sun patches, found comfort in leaves, and listened to birds that sang without asking for permission. Love did not come from where she expected, but survival taught her a different kind of strength.
This is a story of pity, yes—but also of resilience. Even without love, even without care, a fragile life can still hold on. And sometimes, the softest hearts endure the longest.
