Deep beneath the creaky floorboards of Grandma’s attic, where the air smelled like old books and cinnamon cookies, there was a tiny, hidden door. Creeeak! It swung open one afternoon when Roman, a boy with hair as wild as a bird’s nest, dropped his favorite toy car—clink!—right into a crack in the wood. His fingers wiggled into the gap, but the car was gone. Gone! Like a sneaky mouse, it had vanished.

"I’ll find you," Roman whispered, his voice bouncing off the dusty beams. He pressed his ear to the floor. Tap-tap-tap. A sound like tiny hammers echoed below. His nose twitched—was that the smell of burnt marshmallows? With a deep breath, he squeezed through the door and plop! landed in the Underground World of Lost Objects.

The ground squished under his sneakers, soft as a bowl of pudding. Around him, towers of forgotten things stretched into the dim light: a mountain of mismatched socks, a river of lost buttons, and—whoa!—a bridge made entirely of bent spoons. Roman’s eyes widened. "This place is weirder than my sock drawer," he muttered.

Then he heard it. A sniffle. Sniff-sniff. Behind a pile of deflated balloons, a small girl with pigtails sat hugging her knees. Her dress was patched with fabric scraps, and her shoes were two different sizes. "I lost my kindness," she said, her voice wobbling like a jelly on a trampoline. "It was in my pocket, but now it’s gone. And without it, I can’t make friends."

Roman’s heart did a little flip. He knew that feeling—the way your tummy ties itself in knots when you want to help but don’t know how. He crouched beside her. "What does kindness look like?" he asked, his fingers tracing the rough edges of a lost puzzle piece.

"It’s warm," she said, "like a cup of cocoa. And it smells like fresh-baked bread. And it makes your chest feel all fuzzy, like a kitten’s belly." She sighed. "But I dropped it somewhere. Maybe near the Cave of Forgotten Lunchboxes."

Roman gulped. The Cave of Forgotten Lunchboxes was rumored to be guarded by the Grumble Monster, a creature made of stale sandwiches and sour milk. Crunch. Crunch. The sound of its footsteps echoed in the distance. But Roman squared his shoulders. "Let’s go," he said, even though his knees were knocking like castanets.

They tiptoed past a waterfall of melted crayons (the air smelled like wax and regret) and climbed a ladder of tangled jump ropes. At the cave’s entrance, the Grumble Monster loomed, its belly rumbling like a thunderstorm. GRRRRRR. Roman’s hands trembled. Then he had an idea. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his emergency snack—a slightly squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "Here," he said, holding it out. "This is for you."

The monster’s eyes widened. Sniff-sniff. It leaned in, its breath smelling like old gym socks. Then—CHOMP!—it gobbled the sandwich. For a moment, there was silence. Then the monster’s belly let out a tiny burp. "That was… nice," it rumbled. "No one’s ever given me food before." Its edges softened, like butter left in the sun.

"Have you seen a girl’s kindness?" Roman asked. The monster scratched its head (made of a moldy cheese slice). "Hmm. Maybe near the Pile of Broken Promises?" It pointed a claw down a winding path.

Roman and the girl hurried on, past a forest of lost hair ties (the leaves rustled like whispers) and a lake of spilled glitter (it stuck to their shoes like tiny stars). Finally, they reached the Pile of Broken Promises—a towering heap of "I’ll share my toys" and "I’ll clean my room." And there, nestled in the crook of a bent hanger, was a small, glowing orb. It pulsed like a heartbeat, warm as a hug, and smelled like Grandma’s lavender soap.

The girl gasped. "That’s it!" She reached for it, but her fingers passed right through. "It’s not working!" she wailed, her shoulders slumping like a deflated balloon.

Roman bit his lip. Then he remembered something his dad always said: "Kindness isn’t something you lose. It’s something you do." He took a deep breath and turned to the girl. "What’s your name?"

"Lila," she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

"Hi, Lila. I’m Roman. Want to be friends?" He held out his hand. Lila’s eyes lit up like fireworks. She grabbed his hand, and—POP!—the orb zipped into her chest. Her cheeks turned pink, and she grinned so wide it looked like her face might split in two.

"It worked!" she cheered. "I can feel it!" She hugged Roman so tight he could barely breathe. Then she pulled back, her hands fluttering like excited butterflies. "Now I can help others find their kindness too!"

Roman laughed. "Let’s start with the Grumble Monster. Maybe it just needs a friend."

As they walked back through the Underground World of Lost Objects, the air smelled sweeter, like cotton candy and rain. The lost things seemed to hum with joy, and even the bent spoons on the bridge straightened a little, as if bowing. Roman’s toy car sat on a pedestal near the exit, gleaming like new. He picked it up, its wheels smooth under his fingers, and tucked it into his pocket.

"Ready to go home?" Lila asked, her voice bubbly as soda pop.

Roman nodded. But as he climbed back through the tiny door, he paused. "Hey, Lila?" he called. "If you ever need me, just listen for the tap-tap-tap. I’ll come back."

And with that, he plopped back into Grandma’s attic, the scent of cinnamon cookies wrapping around him like a hug. The floorboards creaked, the dust settled, and Roman smiled. He might not have found his superpower in a comic book, but he knew one thing for sure: kindness wasn’t lost. It was right there, in the way you held out your hand, even when your knees were knocking.

The end.