The forest was unusually quiet that morning, as though the canopy itself was holding its breath. A faint mist curled between the branches, silencing the distant calls of birds and insects. Near the base of an ancient fig tree sat a young monkey named Lumo, his tiny shoulders slumped, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and disappointment. His soft furâusually fluffed with mischiefâlay flat, dampened by the dew and by his own low spirits.
His father, Ranu, watched him from a nearby branch with visible concern. Ranu was known among their troop as a gentle, steady presence: not the loudest, not the boldest, but always the one who noticed when something was wrong. This morning, Lumoâs unhappiness was impossible to miss.
âLittle one,â Ranu murmured, climbing down toward him with slow, deliberate movements so he wouldnât startle the child, âare you still feeling upset?â
Lumo didnât answer. He simply wrapped his arms around his knees and tucked his chin down. Ranu eased himself beside him, letting their shoulders lightly touch. Sometimes comfort didnât require wordsâonly proximity.
A moment later, Ranu retrieved a small leaf-cup he had crafted earlier. Inside was regular milk he had carried carefully across the branches, swaying gently like a pendulum with each leap. It wasnât special or sweetened, not like the treats Lumo sometimes received from his mother or the unexpected delights he found when the troop raided fruit trees. But it was nourishing, warm, and chosen with intention.
Ranu held it out. âHere. I brought this for you.â
Lumo looked at it, then at his father, and sighed. âThanks,â he said softly, accepting the milk. He took a few slow sips, though his expression barely changed. He still looked⊠crestfallen, as though the weight on his heart stubbornly refused to lift.
What Ranu didnât knowâwhat he couldnât knowâwas that Lumoâs unhappiness wasnât about hunger or comfort. Earlier that morning, while playing with other young monkeys, Lumo had taken a risky leap between branches. He wanted to show off. He wanted to prove he could do what the older ones did so easily. But instead of landing with pride, he slipped and fell into a tangle of vines below. He hadnât been hurt, not physically, but embarrassment clung to him like the damp forest air. The others had gasped, then giggled, though not cruelly. Still, Lumo felt small.
He didnât want his father to think he was weak. He didnât want anyone to know heâd failed.
Ranu, sensing more than he understood, gently rested a hand on Lumoâs back. âSometimes,â he said quietly, âthe forest is heavier than it looks.â
Lumo blinked at him. The words didnât solve everything, but they cracked something openâa tiny fracture in the wall he had built around himself. He took a deeper breath. Then another. The milk seemed warmer now, though it hadnât changed.
âYou came here⊠just for me?â Lumo whispered.
âAlways,â Ranu replied.
A long moment passed, filled only by the hum of distant insects beginning their morning chorus. Slowly, Lumo leaned against his fatherâs side. Ranu didnât move, didnât speakâjust stayed. And that, more than the milk, more than any advice, was what finally began to soothe the little monkeyâs heart.
He wasnât smiling yet. Not quite. But the forest felt a bit less heavy. And though his father couldnât take away the sting of his earlier fall, he had offered something steadier: presence, patience, unconditional care.
Sometimes unhappiness takes time to fade. But it fades faster when someone sits beside you, holding a simple cup of milk, saying without words, You donât have to face this alone.
