In the quiet corner of a village near the forest edge, a small abandoned monkey named Lipa clung tightly to the wooden beam of a tall rooftop. Her fragile body trembled with fear as she peeked down at the ground below. There stood a man—tall, unfamiliar, and loud. He wasn’t hurting anyone, but his voice, his movements, his sheer size frightened her deeply.
Lipa had been abandoned days earlier, left alone in a strange part of the village far from where she was born. No mother to comfort her, no familiar hands to feed her. Her instincts told her to run, to climb, to hide. And so she had—scampering up onto the rooftop of an old temple house, pressing her tiny body into the clay tiles, trying to disappear.
From down below, a few villagers had noticed her. “Poor thing,” one whispered. “She’s just a baby.”
The big man, a well-meaning volunteer from an animal rescue group, tried to coax her down with a banana. But every time he stepped closer, Lipa cried out—a sharp, heartbreaking sound—and pushed herself further toward the edge.
Her sobs echoed from the roof. She covered her face with her tiny hands, tail wrapped tightly around her legs. She didn’t know who to trust. She only knew she was scared, and she remembered too well how her mother had disappeared, how other big creatures had shouted or chased her.
The sun grew hotter, and the tiles beneath her burned. Still, Lipa wouldn’t move.
The rescue team changed their approach. A quiet woman, small and calm, came forward instead. Her name was Dara. She didn’t climb, didn’t shout. She simply sat below with a soft towel and a small milk bottle in her lap. She looked up with gentle eyes, whispering in a voice Lipa could barely hear.
And she waited.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Slowly, Lipa peeked over the edge again. The big man was gone. Only Dara remained, still holding the bottle out with both hands, unmoving.
Curiosity tugged at Lipa’s fear.
She inched closer to the edge.
Then a little more.
And finally, with a shaky breath, Lipa slid down the lower beam toward the edge of the rooftop. She didn’t jump, not yet. But she watched as Dara gently placed the bottle down and stepped back. Lipa’s eyes flicked toward the milk, her tiny belly aching.
One last cry escaped her lips. A sound of loneliness. Of loss.
Then she jumped—landing clumsily on the platform below.
Dara didn’t reach out. She only waited.
Lipa crawled forward, inch by inch, and finally wrapped her tiny fingers around the bottle.
She drank.
And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel entirely alone.
