The jungle awoke with the chatter of birds and rustling leaves, yet one sound rose higher than the rest — the soft, desperate cries of a baby monkey. Little Lynx clung to his mother Luna’s fur, nudging toward her chest for milk. His tiny stomach still longed for the comfort and warmth of nursing.
But Luna had already begun the weaning. Each time Lynx tried to feed, she shifted away, pulling his small hands from her belly. Instead of offering milk, she guided him toward fruits and young leaves, nudging him to taste the forest’s food.
Confused, Lynx cried louder, his mouth searching but finding nothing. His cries echoed in the canopy, where other babies nestled close, still feeding in their mothers’ arms. The contrast broke his tiny heart.
Luna, though firm, wasn’t entirely cold. She kept him close as she foraged, letting him ride on her back and stay in her warmth. Yet she refused to give the milk he wanted, believing it was time for him to grow.
By evening, Lynx sat quietly on a branch, nibbling a leaf with little appetite. He was still hungry, still longing — but the days of milk were already slipping away.
