In the quiet, humid morning of the forest edge, baby LEO sat still on the soft, wet ground, blinking sleepily as the world around him slowly woke. His tiny body felt heavy, drained from a long night of restless crying and little energy. But his mother, always alert and always moving, had already decided it was time to change locations, searching for a safer spot with warmer sunlight.
LEO, however, didn’t move. He remained curled up in the muddy patch beneath him, barely lifting his head. His mother turned back repeatedly, calling to him with low chirps, urging him to stand. When he didn’t respond, frustration flickered in her eyes. She stepped toward him, nudging him gently at first, trying to motivate him. Still, he stayed limp, not out of stubbornness, but sheer exhaustion.
Growing impatient, Mom hooked her arm around his tiny side and began pulling him along the muddy ground. LEO slid helplessly, letting out soft, confused squeaks as the mud smeared across his belly and legs. Mom wasn’t being intentionally harsh—she simply believed he needed to follow her, needed to keep moving, needed to stay close. Her instincts told her that stopping too long meant danger.
But for little LEO, each tug felt overwhelming. His tired limbs dragged behind him, his small fingers scraping through the wet soil. The forest around them echoed with distant sounds, yet he could focus only on the rough movement and the cold mud pulling at his skin.
Eventually, Mom paused, realizing he still wasn’t responding. She turned to him, touched his cheek softly, and finally settled beside him. For a brief moment, her urgency faded, replaced by concern. LEO pressed closer, trembling but comforted, hoping that just a little rest would help him stand again and follow her when he was ready.
