They entered a small storage room of some kind; it held only one chair, on which a monkey was
sitting. He was large for a monkey—smaller than an adult human, but bigger than, say, an
elementary-school student. His hair was a shade longer than is usual for monkeys and was woven
with gray. It was hard to tell his age, but he was definitely not young. The monkey’s arms and
legs were tightly tied to the wooden chair, and his long tail drooped on the floor. As Mizuki
entered, the monkey shot her a glance, then stared back down at the ground.
“A monkey?” Mizuki asked in surprise.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Sakaki replied. “A monkey stole the nametags from your apartment, right
around the time that you began forgetting your name.”
I don’t want a monkey running off with it,
Yuko had said. So it wasn’t a joke after all, Mizuki
realized. A chill shot up her spine.
“I’m very sorry,” the monkey said, his voice low but spirited, with an almost musical quality to it