The Angkor Wat forest was unusually still that afternoon. Sunlight filtered through tall trees, landing softly on stone ruins and leaf-covered ground. The troop had already begun to move, slowly drifting deeper into the forest, following familiar paths shaped by generations.
One small primate remained behind.
He sat near the base of a tree, watching the direction his mother had gone. She hadn’t disappeared suddenly. There was no rush, no conflict. She simply followed the group forward, trusting that her young one would find his way after her, as he had done many times before.
But this time, he didn’t.
The young primate stayed frozen, his body tense, eyes fixed on the empty space where his mother had last been. He made a soft sound—uncertain, searching. When there was no response, he tried again, louder this time. The forest answered only with wind and distant movement.
From where I stood, it was impossible not to feel the weight of the moment.
He began to move in small circles, stopping often, looking in every direction. His hands clutched at leaves and roots, as if the ground itself might offer comfort. His breathing quickened. He was not injured. He was not in danger. But he was suddenly, deeply alone.
Minutes passed.
Eventually, he climbed onto a low stone ledge near the temple ruins. He sat there quietly, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes scanning the forest. The confidence he had earlier was gone, replaced by caution and longing. This was not fear—it was absence.
In the wild, mothers must balance care with independence. They cannot always turn back. They cannot always respond. And young ones must learn, sometimes painfully, that the world does not pause for reassurance.
After a while, distant calls echoed through the trees. The troop was still nearby. Slowly, the young primate stood and began to move in their direction, stopping often, listening, correcting his path.
When he finally disappeared into the trees, the forest returned to its rhythm.
But the quiet he left behind lingered.