In the heart of a forgotten jungle, just beyond the reach of human roads and reason, lived a monkey named Tiko. Once a pampered pet in a grand mansion, Tiko had known luxury — ripe bananas on demand, silk cushions, and the adoration of curious guests. But when the family moved away, Tiko was abandoned, left behind as if he were no more than a broken toy.
Now, he wandered the ruins of the estate, fur matted, belly empty, and eyes clouded with memories. His once-bright coat was stained with mud and neglect. He no longer climbed for joy but for survival. The tourists who occasionally passed by gasped and whispered, “Poor thing… look how dirty he is.” They pitied him, snapped a photo, and moved on.
Tiko didn’t understand their words, but he felt the sting of their eyes. Their expressions were worse than hunger — they said, “You are less.” The jungle, wild and free, had not welcomed him as one of its own. The monkeys in the trees shunned him, perhaps sensing the human scent that still lingered.
Yet, he endured.
A million tiny sorrows clung to him like burrs. The pity of strangers, the indifference of nature, and the cruelty of abandonment had turned him into a ghost in his own life.
Then one day, a child approached — not with a camera, but with a banana. She sat, silent and kind. Tiko crept forward, hesitant. In that moment, under the canopy of forgotten leaves, something shifted. Not everything was lost.
And in the eyes of a child, for the first time in years, he didn’t look dirty. He looked seen.
