I can still hear the faint rustle of dry leaves drifting through the early morning air as I stepped into the sacred forest surrounding Angkor Wat. The mist lingered among the pillars of moss-covered stones, and birdsong echoed like a delicate prayer. That’s when I first heard the tiny cry—a desperate, trembling sound that cut deeper than any temple bell.
I followed the sound through dew-spattered undergrowth until I saw it: a fragile newborn monkey curled in the crook of a fallen tree root, eyes wide with confusion. Its mother was nowhere to be seen. Fear and sorrow welled in my chest. I knelt beside the baby, trembling—both from the chill in the forest and from heartbreak. Who could abandon something so innocent?
Time seemed to stretch as I wrapped my shirt gently around the little one. The soft fur felt weak beneath my fingers; its breathing shallow but fighting. I carried the baby to a nearby patch of sunlight, the golden rays offering a promise of warmth—and perhaps hope.
I spent hours tending to the newborn: fashioning a gentle cradle from reedy grasses, murmuring words of comfort I wasn’t even sure it could understand. And as the sun climbed higher, the baby slowly relaxed, its little chest rising and falling in steadier rhythm.
In those hours, I felt all the stories I’d heard about temple monkeys—of abandonment, of cruelty, of the fragility of wildlife pushed to its limits—come alive in the trembling warmth of this tiny creature. I thought of my own children, and how it would feel to have them lost and alone in those ancient stones, needing someone to simply reach out.
I stayed by its side until help arrived—dedicated caretakers from the nearby wildlife rescue center, their faces etched with compassion but burdened by the relentlessness of such emergencies. As they gently cradled the baby away, I felt both relief and an ache I couldn’t name.
Walking back through the forest, the mossy stones seemed to whisper: your heart was broken here today—but because of that, something was saved.