In the golden morning light of the jungle, the monkey troop stirred from their nests. The air buzzed softly with the calls of birds, and dew clung to the leaves like tiny pearls. Among the troop, a small monkey named Moka sat near the base of a fig tree, cradling a piece of fruit in his tiny hands. His tail twitched happily as he nibbled, lost in the sweet flavor and innocent joy of breakfast.
But not far away, Auntie Rozy watched.
Rozy was older, larger, and known across the troop for her short temper and sharp teeth. Her thick fur was graying around the eyes, and she carried herself with authority—though not always kindness. Rozy had raised many babies in the troop, but she had little patience left for Moka’s energy or his cries. That morning, her belly was empty, and her mood was as sour as unripe fruit.
She had seen Moka sneak the fig from a pile of foraged food left for the elders. It wasn’t meant for him. She growled low, but Moka didn’t hear. He was too focused on his treat, humming soft little monkey sounds, unaware of the storm coming his way.
Then came the snap of branches. Rozy charged down from her perch with a fury that shook the leaves. Before Moka could move, she was in front of him, towering, furious.
Moka froze.
In a blink, Rozy snatched the fig from his hands, her teeth bared, and in the same breath—she bit him.
A sharp yelp rang through the trees. Moka tumbled back, clutching his tiny arm, the bite mark red and raw. He screamed. Not just from pain—but from heartbreak, confusion. His sobs echoed like shattered glass in the still forest. His cry was high and loud, carrying through the trees like a broken bell.
Monkeys nearby stopped.
Mothers clutched their babies tighter. Young ones peeked from behind branches. Even the troop leader glanced over, his brow furrowed. No one dared challenge Rozy directly—but all saw the tears streaking down Moka’s face, his body shaking as he whimpered and curled up, so small, so pitiful.
Rozy huffed and returned to her branch, chewing the fig angrily, her face unreadable. Maybe she felt justified. Maybe she felt a flicker of guilt. But she didn’t look back.
That night, Moka didn’t sleep near the others. He stayed alone, tucked under a low root, still sniffling softly. But as the moon rose, another figure joined him—his mother, gentle and quiet. She cradled him close, groomed the fur around his wound, and sang him a low hum—the sound of comfort, of safety, of home.
The jungle remembers many things. The rustling leaves keep stories like this alive: the bite of anger, the cries of the innocent, and the silence that follows when a million pitiful tears fall in the night.
