The morning light filtered gently through the tall trees near Angkor Wat, settling quietly on the forest floor. It was the kind of calm that feels almost intentional, as if the jungle itself was taking a breath. Beneath a low branch, a tiny baby monkey sat alone, small hands wrapped around himself, eyes scanning the space where his mother had last been.
She wasn’t far—but to him, time moved differently.
A soft rainbow of light appeared through lingering mist and leaves, faint but steady. It rested across the baby’s back and face, warming him just enough to slow his restless movements. He didn’t cry. Instead, he listened. Birds called. Leaves shifted. The forest stayed present.
For a baby this young, comfort doesn’t always come from touch. Sometimes it comes from familiarity—from light, warmth, and the quiet promise that waiting is safe. He adjusted his position, curling inward, as if the forest itself were standing in for his mother until she returned.
Moments passed. He looked up again. No panic. Just patience learning its first lesson.
Not long after, movement rustled behind the trees. His mother returned, calm and unhurried, as though she had always known he would be fine. She checked him with a quick glance, then settled nearby. No rush. No distress. Just reunion.
The rainbow faded as the sun climbed higher, its work already done.
This was not a dramatic moment. It was a truthful one—about how young life learns trust, how nature provides space for growth, and how even brief separations can be softened by the world around us.