Little Royston had no arms to cling to, no gentle voice to soothe him. Abandoned far too soon, he sat trembling beneath a wooden bench near the shelter yard—dust-covered, frightened, and all alone. His tiny arms shook as he cried out in helpless frustration, his voice rising in desperate tantrums.
His soft fur was matted with dirt, his wide, searching eyes filled with confusion and longing—for his mother, for warmth, for the comfort of milk.
He was just a baby, far too young to understand why no one came when he cried. Each wail rattled his tiny body, and he threw himself to the ground, overcome by fear and hunger. His belly rumbled with emptiness, but worse than hunger was the ache in his heart.
Royston wasn’t interested in playing or exploring. All he wanted—needed—was milk. Just one warm bottle to soothe his body and quiet the storm inside. Each time footsteps echoed nearby, he looked up with hope… only to be met with silence. No mama. No comfort.
Until finally, someone saw him.
A kind caregiver knelt down beside him, bottle in hand. Royston’s eyes shimmered with tears as he reached out, wrapped his tiny hands around the bottle, and drank as though the world had stopped. He cried between gulps, overwhelmed by the mix of relief and desperation.
As his stomach filled, the cries softened. The trembling slowed. He curled up in the arms that now held him and finally closed his eyes—not from exhaustion, but from comfort.
Royston’s cries weren’t just for food—they were the sound of a broken heart. But now, held and fed, maybe—just maybe—he could begin to heal.
