Deep beneath the park, where the swings creaked like old doors and the slide hummed a sleepy tune, there was a hidden door. It smelled like wet socks and cinnamon (because someone had dropped a cookie down there last Tuesday). The door was covered in bumps—like a giant’s Lego project—and it clicked open when Riley pressed her palm against it. Click-clack!

"Whoa," Riley whispered, her toes curling over the edge. Below her, a tunnel stretched like a lazy worm, glowing with fireflies that buzzed like tiny vacuum cleaners. Zzzzt! Zzzzt! The air was thick with the smell of burnt marshmallows and something… fishy. (Turns out, lost socks *do* have a smell.)

Riley tumbled down—boing! boing!—and landed in a pile of pillows softer than her grandma’s hugs. The Underground World of Lost Objects sparkled around her: a river of mismatched socks, a mountain of forgotten crayons, and a tower of board games stacked taller than her dad. At the very top sat The Game of Truth, its box wobbling like a jellyfish.

"Ooooh," Riley breathed, already climbing. Her fingers slipped on a banana peel (who puts *that* in a game pile?!)—splat!—and she crashed into a shelf of teddy bears. The bears giggled, their fur tickling her nose. Snort!

Finally, she reached the game. The box was warm, like a fresh-baked cookie, and it smelled of pencil shavings and bubblegum. Inside, the board was a swirl of colors, and the rules read: "No fibs allowed! If you lie, the game eats your turn." Riley gulped. She *hated* losing.

Her first roll: clatter-clatter! The dice landed on "Tell a secret." Riley’s stomach did a somersault. "I… I once ate all the sprinkles off the cupcakes," she admitted, her cheeks hotter than a toaster. The game board *glowed*. Ping! A tiny door opened, and a chocolate coin popped out—plop!—right into her hand.

But then… disaster. Her next turn: "Did you ever break something and blame the dog?" Riley’s fingers twisted in her shirt. The dog *did* look guilty last time the vase broke… but no. "It was me," she whispered. The game sighed—whoosh!—and the path ahead shrank. "Nooo!" Riley wailed. She was losing!

Her friend, a teapot with one chipped ear, clinked over. "Losing’s just the game’s way of asking, ‘Are you brave enough to keep playing?’" Riley sniffed. The teapot smelled like chamomile tea and old band-aids. Clink-clank!

So Riley played on. She told the truth about hiding her brother’s toy car, about pretending to be sick to skip bath time, even about the time she *accidentally* glued her hair to the table. (The game gasped—squeak!—and gave her a "Most Honest Player" badge made of glitter.)

When the last piece reached the finish, the board exploded into confetti—pop! pop! pop!—and the Underground World cheered. The teapot hugged her, its spout tickling her ear. "See? Truth tastes sweeter than sprinkles."

Riley climbed back up the tunnel, her pockets jingling with chocolate coins. The park smelled like fresh-cut grass and victory. And as she skipped home, she realized something: losing wasn’t so bad… as long as you played fair. Vroooom!