For as long as I can remember, I dreamed of owning my own store. Not a big supermarket, not a franchise—just a small, warm, friendly place where people from the neighborhood could stop by, chat, and pick up fresh fruit and groceries. It took years of saving, planning, and working extra shifts, but eventually, my dream became reality.

My team became like family to me. We got through power outages, supply shortages, and all kinds of unpredictable situations. They were honest, hardworking, and loyal—people I trusted completely.

But a few months ago, something strange began happening.

At first, it was just bananas—one or two disappearing every day. Then apples, pears, mangoes. Always the ripest ones. At first, I assumed it was a simple inventory error. Then maybe customers taking fruit and forgetting to pay. But the pattern continued, and the disappearance grew more frequent.

I finally asked my employees directly, but they were just as confused as I was. They insisted they hadn’t taken anything, and I believed them. Still, the mystery bothered me.

One evening, after we closed, I decided to install a small hidden camera. Nobody knew—not even my best salesperson. I didn’t want to accuse anyone without proof. I simply needed answers.

The next morning, when I checked the footage, I expected to see a person sneaking around. Instead… I nearly dropped my phone.

Because there, walking through the slightly open back door, was not a thief—
but a monkey.

Yes, a real, fluffy, clever little monkey with bright eyes and a tail that moved like a balancing pole. She stepped inside carefully, checking the room as if she knew the layout. Then she walked straight to the fruit section like a customer who knew exactly what she wanted.

On camera, she examined the fruit one by one:

– She peeled a banana, sniffed it, and tossed it because she didn’t like it.
– She found a peach, sat between the boxes, and ate it delicately.
– She scraped out half a pineapple with her claws.
– She bit an avocado, frowned, and threw it away.
– And pears—oh, she loved pears the most.

When an employee walked by during closing time, she hid behind a crate and didn’t move until the coast was clear. Then she continued her tasting, completely confident in her mission.

I watched the footage again. And again.

The first time in disbelief.
The second time with a smile.
The third time laughing out loud.

This tiny visitor had been slipping into my store for days, maybe weeks, and none of us noticed.

The next morning, I arrived early and stood by the back door. Sure enough, at almost the exact same time, she appeared—calm and confident, like someone returning to a favorite café.

She stopped when she saw me. We looked at each other for several long seconds. She tilted her head, unsure of my reaction.

So I slowly held out a banana.

She took it gently.

And that was how I met the little thief who would eventually earn herself a name: Fru-Fru.

Now we have an agreement. I leave a few fruits out for her every day, and she no longer sneaks around the store. My employees adore her. Customers ask about her. And somehow, my small grocery now feels even more alive.

What started as a mystery turned into one of the sweetest surprises of my life.