The seasons in the mountains passed quietly, like pages turned by an invisible hand. After the silence and stillness of the last months, Ming's life had settled into something simple. Training, eating, watching the sky change colors from dawn to dusk.
The little monkey had become his closest shadow. Where Ming went, the monkey went. Where Ming sat, the monkey perched nearby. At first, Ming thought the monkey was just mischievous, but as days stretched into weeks, he understood—it was loyalty wrapped in playfulness, a heart that refused to leave him alone.
One morning, as sunlight touched the edges of the forest, Ming noticed the monkey curled up on the cold wooden floor of his hut. The monkey stirred, hugging his thin arms around himself, tail flicking uneasily even in sleep. Ming frowned.
"This won't do," he muttered to himself. "He needs something better."
Ming had his teacher's white pillows, soft and rare beyond words. But the monkey? Nothing but bare boards and a thin cloth. It wasn't right.
That afternoon, Ming made his way down the mountain path, a small basket on his back. The monkey followed eagerly, leaping from branch to branch, then landing on Ming's shoulder, chattering with excitement.
"Where are we going?" the monkey asked, eyes gleaming.
"To the market," Ming said simply.
"Market?!" The monkey clapped his hands together. "Does that mean food? Fruits? Sweets? Roasted chestnuts?"
Ming shook his head with a small laugh. "Not food. Materials. I'm going to make you a bed."
The little monkey froze, blinking at him as if he had misheard. Then his face broke into the brightest grin.
"A bed? For me?!"
"Yes," Ming replied, calm but firm. "You shouldn't sleep on the floor. Even if you are mischievous, you're still… my family."
The monkey's brown eyes softened. For once, he didn't joke. He only nodded and held onto Ming's shoulder tightly as they walked.
The market was bustling that day. Merchants called out their goods: colorful fabrics, fragrant spices, clay pots, and tools of every kind. Ming walked slowly, scanning the stalls. He didn't know much about making beds, but he knew comfort when he saw it.
The monkey tugged his sleeve. "That one! Soft cloth!"
"No, too thin."
"How about this? Bright red!"
"No, too flashy."
"What about straw?"
"…You'll sneeze all night."
The two went back and forth until finally Ming bought sturdy wooden slats, a soft roll of cotton, and a plain cloth cover. His purse grew lighter, but his heart felt strangely satisfied.
When they returned home, Ming set to work. He sawed, hammered, and stitched with clumsy but determined hands. The monkey watched at first, tail swishing, then grew restless and began "helping." His idea of helping meant scattering nails, climbing onto the unfinished frame, and nearly toppling the whole thing over.
"Out!" Ming scolded, shooing him away.
But the monkey only giggled, hopping around like a little shadow. By the time evening arrived, the bed was finished—simple, plain, but strong. Ming spread the cotton mattress over it and patted the top.
"There. Yours."
The monkey's eyes shone. He jumped onto the bed, rolled across it, bounced up and down, and finally sprawled with his arms wide.
"It's mine! My bed! Wahahaha!"
Ming shook his head, smiling despite himself. The little monkey's happiness was so pure it warmed the hut.
Days passed. The monkey loved his new bed, often showing it off to the other animals as if it were a treasure. Yet, one evening, as Ming quietly sorted his belongings, he noticed the monkey had stopped playing.
The monkey sat still, unusually still, his brown eyes fixed on something. Ming followed his gaze—and froze.
The monkey wasn't looking at his new bed. He was staring at Ming's pillows.
Those five white pillows sat neatly at the head of Ming's own bed, glowing softly in the lamplight. Pure white, dust-proof, made of materials his teacher had given him. Rare, priceless, unlike anything else. To Ming, they were more than objects. They were warmth, comfort, and a link to his teacher's care.
When Ming realized what the monkey was staring at, his heart jumped. Instinctively, he moved forward, arms spread as if shielding them.
"You can't have these!" Ming blurted out.
The monkey blinked innocently, still staring. Slowly, he tilted his head, letting those beautiful brown eyes meet Ming's. There was no mischief in them—only longing.
"Ming…" the monkey said softly, his voice carrying an unusual weight. "I want them."
Ming stiffened. "No. Absolutely not."
"I want them," the monkey repeated, his tone turning childlike, almost begging. "Please. Give me one? Just one?"
Ming shook his head firmly. "These are… treasures. Not even Teacher can take them. They're mine."
The monkey's lips curled into a pout. "But why? You have five! Five pillows! I only want one."
"Because they're not just pillows!" Ming's voice rose. "They… they carry things you can't understand. They're part of me."
The monkey stared at him, wide-eyed, then sighed dramatically. He flopped onto the floor, tail smacking against the wood, and wailed, "I want pillows! I want pillows!"
Ming pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible."
"I want them!" the monkey shouted again, rolling around like a child throwing a tantrum.
Ming crossed his arms. "I won't give them. Not even to you. Not even to Teacher. They're mine."
The monkey paused, blinking at him. Then, with sudden cunning, he sat up and gave Ming the most pitiful, wide-eyed look he could manage. His brown eyes sparkled, soft and beautiful, filled with longing that pierced deeper than any tantrum.
For a heartbeat, Ming's heart softened. He almost faltered. But then he clenched his fists.
"No. I can't."
The monkey slumped, defeated. "Then… I hate my bed."
Ming groaned.
That night, as Ming lay down to sleep, he clutched his pillows tighter than ever. Yet guilt gnawed at him. The memory of those brown eyes, so full of longing, refused to leave him.
The monkey wasn't being greedy. He wasn't being mischievous. He just wanted to share something that mattered to Ming.
Ming stared at the ceiling, sighing.
"…He'll never let it go, will he?"
The next day, Ming gathered scraps of cloth and leftover cotton. He wasn't skilled, but he worked with care. Stitch by stitch, he shaped a small pillow. It wasn't like his own. It wasn't perfect. But it was something.
When he handed it to the monkey, the little creature froze. His brown eyes widened in surprise.
"…For me?"
Ming nodded, embarrassed. "Yes. A pillow. Not mine, but yours. I can't give you my treasures… but I can at least make you one."
The monkey took it, hugging it tightly to his chest. For a moment, he didn't joke or pout. He simply whispered, "Thank you."
That night, the monkey lay on his bed, clutching his new pillow. Ming glanced over. The little monkey's breathing slowed, his expression softening in sleep.
For the first time, Ming felt peace. His treasures remained safe, and yet he had given the monkey something of his own. It wasn't perfect—but it was enough.
The hut grew quiet. The night breeze slipped through the window, carrying the scent of pine. Ming held his five white pillows close. The monkey clutched his single, handmade one.
Two beings—boy and monkey—lay in the same room, each with something precious under their heads.
Different pillows, but the same warmth of family.
And though Ming didn't know it yet, this was only the beginning of the monkey's stubborn desire…