Lyly was no ordinary monkey. She wore a tiny red scarf, loved mango-flavored ice cream, and danced whenever the radio played jazz. Her antics were the highlight of every afternoon in the household, especially for little Timi, who swore Lyly could understand everything he said.
But something strange happened one rainy Tuesday.
After lunch, instead of her usual routine of bouncing across the furniture and pestering Timi for snacks, Lyly calmly walked into the hallway, opened the closet door, climbed in, and curled up in the corner. She didn’t make a sound. She didn’t even bring her favorite stuffed banana toy.
Timi followed her, confused. “Lyly? What are you doing? That’s the broom closet!” But she just blinked sleepily and closed her eyes.
An hour passed. Then two. Timi became worried.
“Mom! Something’s wrong with Lyly!” he cried.
Mom knelt beside the closet, gently touching Lyly’s head. “She’s not sick… she’s just sleeping. But it is odd.”
That night, Lyly didn’t come out for dinner. Or dessert. Even jazz couldn’t rouse her.
The next morning, however, Lyly emerged—glowing. Not literally, but she seemed different. Calmer. Wiser, almost. She moved gracefully, her eyes full of something ancient and knowing.
Timi was baffled. “Did you… become a monk in there?” he whispered.
Lyly simply nodded.
For days after, Lyly behaved like a tiny enlightened sage. She meditated on windowsills, shared her bananas, and even stopped stealing socks. It was as if that nap in the closet had awakened something… beyond.
Then one afternoon, she scampered back into the closet again. This time with her toy.
“What’s happening to Lyly?” Timi asked.
Nobody knew for sure. Maybe the closet was a portal. Maybe monkeys have their own mysterious rites of passage. Or maybe, just maybe, Lyly was dreaming dreams too big for the living room.
