Deep beneath the creaky floorboards of Grandma’s house, where the air smelled like old books and cinnamon, there was a secret place. Not a closet. Not a basement. But a whole world—the Underground World of Lost Objects. You could hear it if you pressed your ear to the ground: clink-clank, whoosh-swoosh, like a thousand tiny things whispering all at once.

One rainy afternoon, when the sky was as gray as a grumpy elephant, Jonathan was playing with his favorite toy—a bright red fire truck with a siren that went wee-oo, wee-oo. But then—CRACK!—the ladder snapped. Jonathan’s heart did a little flip-flop. The truck wasn’t just broken; it was very broken. One wheel wobbled like a jellyfish, and the siren sounded more like wah-wah than wee-oo.

"Oh no," Jonathan whispered, his fingers twisting together. He knew he should tell Grandma, but what if she was cross? What if she said, "Jonathan! You’re too rough with your toys!" His tummy felt like it was full of wriggly worms. So, instead of telling the truth, he did what any five-year-old might do—he hid the truck under his bed. Plop. Right next to a sock that smelled like cheese and a crayon that had been there so long it had turned to dust.

That night, as Jonathan lay in bed, he heard it. A tiny tap-tap-tap on his window. Then a scratch-scratch. Then—POP!—a little door opened in the wall, no bigger than a shoebox. Out tumbled a tiny, round man with a hat made of a thimble and a coat stitched from old candy wrappers. He smelled like peppermint and motor oil.

"Hullo!" the tiny man said, bowing so low his hat nearly fell off. "Name’s Pippin. Keeper of the Underground World of Lost Objects. And you, my friend, have something that belongs to us."

Jonathan’s eyes went wide as saucers. "I—I don’t have anything!" he squeaked.

Pippin raised an eyebrow (which was actually just a piece of thread). "Oh, really? Then why’s your bed wobbling like a jellyfish on a trampoline?" Sure enough, the red fire truck was poking out from under the bed, as if it was trying to escape. Wiggle-wiggle.

Jonathan gulped. "It’s broken. I didn’t mean to!"

Pippin sighed, his candy-wrapper coat crinkling like autumn leaves. "Ah. Well, that’s why we’re here. In the Underground World, broken things don’t stay broken. They get fixed! But first, they have to be found. And hiding them? That’s like putting a bandage on a banana—it just doesn’t work."

Jonathan’s cheeks burned. "But what if Grandma gets mad?"

Pippin chuckled, his belly shaking like a bowl of jelly. "Oh, grown-ups are like toasters. Sometimes they pop, but mostly they just want to help. And besides, have you ever seen a toaster stay mad at toast?"

Jonathan giggled. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the fire truck (which felt as heavy as a sack of potatoes), and marched downstairs. Grandma was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup that smelled like warm hugs and tomato soup. Bubble-bubble.

"Grandma?" Jonathan said, his voice small. "I broke my fire truck. I’m sorry."

Grandma turned, her hands dusted with flour like she’d been wrestling a cloud. She knelt down, her knees creaking like the floorboards. "Oh, Jonathan," she said, her voice soft as a kitten’s purr. "I’m not mad. Accidents happen! Let’s see what we can do."

Together, they glued the wheel back on (it wobbled a little, but that just made it extra special). The siren still went wah-wah, but now it sounded like a giggly robot. And when Jonathan hugged the truck, it smelled like glue and Grandma’s lavender soap.

That night, as Jonathan drifted off to sleep, he heard it again. Clink-clank, whoosh-swoosh. Pippin’s voice floated up from the tiny door. "See? Told you honesty was the best glue!" And with a pop, the door closed, leaving behind just the faintest smell of peppermint and motor oil.

The next morning, Jonathan found something under his pillow—a tiny, shiny screw. And on his windowsill, a note in wobbly letters: "For the best fixer-upper in the world. —Pippin." Jonathan grinned. The Underground World of Lost Objects wasn’t so scary after all. In fact, it was kind of magical.