He sat beneath the ancient fig tree—a chimpanzee whose eyes had seen the coming and going of countless rains. The forest was quiet, but not silent. Every rustle carried her name.
The elder looked toward the horizon where the sun had dipped low, and the wind brought memories instead of scents. “She used to sit here,” his heart seemed to murmur, “watching us, listening—not to our noise, but to our silence.”
The younger chimps did not understand. To them, she was a story—the woman who never left the forest in her heart. But the elder remembered her voice, soft as leaves falling on damp soil, saying, “We are not so different, you and I.”
Now she was gone. The forest, though vast, felt smaller. The morning calls rose and fell without her gentle echo. The old chimp reached for the empty air where once her gaze had met his. “You saw us,” he whispered, “when the world looked away.”
Above him, the sky grew deep and violet, and the forest breathed in rhythm—slow, mournful, alive. The troop gathered, uncertain, sensing the heaviness that hung between the branches.
Then, in the hush, a single call rang out—soft, resonant, like the first word of a prayer. It wasn’t sorrow alone. It was gratitude. It was memory.
And as night fell, the elder closed his eyes. “You taught them,” he thought, “that we are kin. That to protect us is to protect themselves.”
Somewhere in the canopy, a firefly flickered—briefly, beautifully.
And in that light, the forest whispered back,
“She is gone from the world,
but never from the wild.”
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