The morning light moved gently through the tall trees of the Angkor forest, touching the roots and stones with a quiet warmth. Beneath a wide banyan tree, a small baby monkey named Leo sat alone.
He wasn’t playing like the others.
He wasn’t climbing or chasing shadows.
Leo was waiting.
His tiny hands rested on the roots, and every so often, he would look up—his eyes scanning the branches above, as if expecting a familiar shape to appear. A soft sound escaped him, not loud, not urgent, just a small call that carried through the still air.
It was the kind of sound that didn’t demand attention—but held it.
The troop had already begun moving deeper into the forest. Some paused briefly, glancing back, but no one stopped for long. Life in the canopy moved forward, steady and unbroken.
But Leo stayed.
He shifted slightly, curling his tail around himself, pressing closer to the tree. The bark seemed to comfort him in a quiet way. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the movement of distant monkeys—made him lift his head again.
Still hoping.
Time passed slowly. The sunlight grew brighter, then softer again as clouds drifted overhead. Leo didn’t wander far. He took a few steps, then returned to the same spot, as if something inside him told him to stay.
As if leaving might mean missing her.
There was no panic in his movements—only a quiet persistence. A belief that hadn’t yet faded.
And in that stillness, something deeply familiar appeared.
Not just in Leo—but in the moment itself.
Because sometimes, waiting is not about knowing what will happen next. It’s about holding onto what once was.
And under that banyan tree, Leo held on—softly, patiently—until the forest carried on around him.