Little Lynx had always been a gentle, playful baby, full of curiosity and soft mews. But this morning, the peaceful forest around him felt heavy and tense. His mother, usually calm and protective, was strangely distant. She sat on a rock, eyes cold, refusing to let him come close. Lynx, confused and desperate for comfort, tried again and again to approach her, but each time she hissed and pushed him away with sharp, impatient movements.
The rejection broke him instantly.
Terrible cried echoed through the trees as Lynx tumbled back, rolling on the ground in frustration and heartbreak. His small body twisted, paws scratching at the dirt, tail trembling. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong. His cries grew louder, echoing with the kind of pain only a little one can feel when love suddenly feels lost.
Nearby birds fluttered from branches, startled by the noise. Even the wind seemed to pause as Lynx continued to cry, his voice hoarse, his eyes wet. He tried crawling toward his mother again, hoping she would soften, but she turned her head away sharply, refusing to accept him or allow him near.
Pity filled the air like a silent shadow.
Lynx rolled onto his back, tiny paws reaching upward as though begging for warmth. His mother’s anger wasn’t cruelty—just confusion, stress, or instinct—but the little one could not understand that. All he felt was the cold emptiness where comfort should have been.
After what felt like forever, Lynx’s cries weakened. He curled into a small ball of sadness on the ground, chest rising and falling with trembling breaths. The forest watched silently, waiting—hoping—that the mother would finally return to him with the gentleness he needed so badly.
