The morning light slipped softly through the ancient trees surrounding Angkor Wat. The forest was still, except for one sound that didn’t belong to the rhythm of birds or wind.
It was a cry.
High. Thin. Searching.
I followed the sound carefully along the stone pathway where moss meets centuries-old carvings. Near the roots of a banyan tree, a tiny baby monkey clung to a low branch. His fur was still soft and new-looking, lighter than the adults around him. His small hands gripped tightly, but his eyes were wide with confusion.
He called out again.
Not in panic. Not in fear.
Just in need.
A few feet away, an older female monkey paused from foraging. She turned her head slowly. There was no rush in her movement—just awareness. The baby’s voice carried across the stones like a fragile thread.
He didn’t understand distance yet. He didn’t understand independence. He only understood one thing:
He wanted his mother.
The forest did not react dramatically. No chaos. No alarm. Just the steady pulse of life continuing around him.
When the mother finally approached, she didn’t scold or rush. She simply came close enough for him to reach. The baby moved quickly, pressing his tiny body against her chest, wrapping his arms into the familiar warmth of her fur.
And then—
Silence.
The crying stopped instantly.
The relief was almost visible, like tension leaving a small body all at once. His breathing slowed. His eyes softened.
Watching them there, framed by ancient stone and filtered sunlight, I realized something simple and universal: comfort is not complicated.
In that quiet reunion, the Angkor forest felt smaller, gentler. The baby wasn’t alone anymore.
And neither, in that moment, did I feel alone.