Morning sunlight crept through the small cracks of Ming's hut. The mountain air was crisp, carrying the soft chirping of birds outside. Ming stirred lazily, hugging one of his five white pillows close to his chest. His face, calm and innocent in sleep, carried the peace of a boy who had found a rhythm in life.
Suddenly—thud! Something hit him square on the chest.
Ming jerked awake, blinking in confusion. A pillow lay sprawled across him. Not one of his own white treasures, but the small, plain pillow he had stitched for the little monkey.
Ming rubbed his eyes. "What in the world…?"
The monkey stood at the edge of his own bed, arms crossed, tail flicking with annoyance. His brown eyes glared stubbornly at Ming.
"Why are you throwing your pillow at me first thing in the morning?" Ming asked, voice still heavy with sleep.
The monkey huffed, pointing at the five white pillows behind Ming. "Because I don't want this one. I want the same as yours."
Ming frowned, hugging his own pillow protectively. "What do you mean? I already made you a pillow. You should be happy with it."
The monkey's gaze didn't waver. "I don't want just any pillow. I want the same. Same color. Same softness. Same as yours."
Ming blinked, then groaned. "You can't be serious. These aren't ordinary pillows. They were given to me by Teacher. They're rare, priceless. Even I don't know what they're made of."
The monkey tilted his head, then pointed again, stubborn. "Doesn't matter. I want them. Or at least the same as them."
Ming sat up, hugging his pillows tightly. "No! Not even Teacher can take these. They're mine, my treasures."
The monkey's lips trembled. He stomped his feet and puffed out his cheeks. "Then I don't want mine!" He kicked the small pillow onto the floor. "I want the same as yours!"
Ming sighed heavily, massaging his temples. "Why are you so stubborn about this?!"
The monkey leaned close, his beautiful brown eyes locking onto Ming's. "Because I've seen them. Every night, you hold them close. Every morning, you wake up hugging them. They're not just pillows to you. They're treasures. And I… I want treasures too."
Ming froze. The honesty in those words pierced deeper than any tantrum could. For a moment, he didn't know how to reply.
Market Stubbornness
Later that day, Ming headed to the market again, hoping to buy some food and small supplies. He thought the monkey would stay behind, sulking in his bed. But no. The moment Ming stepped outside, the little monkey jumped onto his shoulder and clung tightly.
"I'm coming too," he announced.
Ming sighed. "Fine. But don't cause trouble."
The market was as lively as ever—rows of stalls lined with fabrics, jars of spices, fruits stacked high, and merchants calling out to customers. Ming weaved through the crowd, looking for what he needed. But every time he reached for something, the monkey tugged at his sleeve.
"Not that."
Ming frowned. "Why not?"
"It's not the same as your pillows."
Ming exhaled sharply. "We're not here for that today. We're buying food and basics."
But the monkey didn't listen. He hopped down from Ming's shoulder, marched up to a fabric stall, and pressed his small hands against rolls of cloth. He squeezed, sniffed, and even rubbed his cheek against the fabric.
"Too rough," he muttered. He moved to the next roll. "Too thin." Another. "Too itchy."
The merchant laughed. "What a picky little fellow! Looking for something special?"
The monkey crossed his arms. "The softest! White, like snow. Comfortable like clouds."
Ming caught up, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, he's just—"
But the monkey cut him off. "I want five! Just like his!" He pointed straight at Ming.
The merchant raised an eyebrow. Ming turned red. "He's exaggerating—"
But the monkey's determination only grew. He tugged Ming's sleeve and pulled him to stall after stall, carefully testing each material. It wasn't play. His eyes were serious, more serious than Ming had ever seen them.
The Monkey's Secret
As they searched, Ming noticed the monkey's expression soften when he touched something even remotely close to Ming's pillows. There was a quiet reverence in his eyes, almost hidden beneath his stubbornness.
That night, Ming realized why.
The monkey confessed in a hushed voice, almost embarrassed.
"When you weren't around… I touched your pillows."
Ming froze. "You what?!"
The monkey avoided his gaze, scratching his ear nervously. "I didn't steal them! I just… wanted to see why you guarded them so closely. I thought, 'They're just pillows.' But when I touched them…" His eyes grew distant, recalling the memory. "They weren't just soft. They were… warm. They felt alive. Like they were holding you, even when you were alone."
He looked at Ming seriously. "I can't take them from you. I know they're your treasures. But I want treasures too. I want something that makes me feel the same."
Ming's chest tightened. He suddenly understood. This wasn't childish greed. This was longing. The monkey wanted something of his own to cherish, just like Ming cherished his white pillows.
The Price of Pillows
The monkey grew more determined. "If you won't give me yours, then help me make mine. The same color. The same number. Five."
"Five?!" Ming almost choked.
"Yes, five," the monkey said seriously. "You have five. I want five. Otherwise, it's not fair."
Ming buried his face in his hands. "You're impossible."
But the monkey didn't budge. And so, they continued searching the market. Every stall, every roll of fabric, every bundle of cotton. Slowly, piece by piece, the monkey gathered what he wanted: the softest cotton he could find, white fabric that gleamed in the sun, threads strong enough to last.
Ming paid reluctantly, watching his purse grow lighter with each purchase. By the end of the day, his savings—carefully gathered over months—were nearly gone.
Seventy-five percent of his money had vanished, all for pillows.
As they walked home, Ming shook his head, muttering, "All this… for pillows."
The monkey hugged the bag of materials proudly. "Not just pillows. My pillows."
Sewing Together
That evening, under the glow of a flickering oil lamp, Ming spread the materials across the table. The monkey sat opposite him, already trying to thread a needle with his clumsy little hands.
"You don't even know how to sew," Ming said, exasperated.
"Then teach me," the monkey replied.
And so they began. Ming guided the monkey's hands, showing him how to stitch carefully. The monkey pricked his fingers more than once, yelping dramatically each time, but he didn't quit. He wanted these pillows too much.
Hours passed. Their stitches were uneven, their seams clumsy, but together, slowly, five new pillows took shape. White, soft, imperfect, but real.
When they finished, the monkey hugged one to his chest and sighed happily. "They're mine. My treasures."
Ming leaned back, exhausted. His hands ached, his money was gone, but when he saw the monkey curl up on his bed with his new pillows, a soft smile spread across his face.
The monkey closed his eyes, tail wrapping around the pillow protectively. For the first time, he slept deeply, a smile lingering on his lips.
Ming whispered to himself, "Stubborn little thing…" Then he lay down with his own pillows, heart strangely warm.
In the quiet mountain hut, two sets of pillows lay side by side. Ming's five pure treasures, and the monkey's five newly made ones.
Different origins, different worth—but to each of them, equally precious.
And perhaps, Ming thought as he drifted to sleep, that was what family meant: not sharing everything, but making space for each to have treasures of their own.