Mortimer “Mop” Gudgeon had never intended to chase a rainbow. He wasn’t that sort of chap; much more the kind of man who believed in clean socks, lukewarm tea, and standing quietly in queues. But life, as it often does, had other ideas. One moment he was out walking his dog, Gertie, and the next he was squinting at a rainbow that had parked itself squarely in the field behind Mrs. Thistle’s favourite compost heap. Mrs Thistle was fond of compost heaps, although nobody was entirely sure why.

And it wasn’t just _in_ the field. It was ‘_Rainbow’s end’_ right there. The rainbow, in utter defiance of meteorological decency, stopped politely three feet past a row of suspiciously neat blue-tinged cabbages and glowed with the smugness of something that knew it wasn’t supposed to be there, but yet _absolutely was_.

Mop blinked. Gertie emitted a short bark.

“Alright then,” Mop said. “If you insist. Just a look, mind.”

Either disappointingly, or perhaps merely surprisingly, there was no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. There was a shed. A wooden one. Faded green paint, padlock long since cut open, roof slightly wonky. It had a sign nailed to it that read:

**“Department of Misplaced Wonders – Ring Bell for Service”**

Mop was not a brave man. His bravery lay somewhere around the “might complain if tea is too cold and the assistant doesn’t look too scary” mark. But he had lived a good fifty-two years without ever finding a pot of gold let alone a Department of anything mysterious, and something in him, possibly inherited, pushed him to ring the bell.

There was a sound like a deck of cards sighing.

The door creaked open and a man peered out. He wore glasses milk-bottle thick, and a beard of Assyrian proportions with a pencil stuck in it.

“You’re late,” said the man.

“I didn’t know I was expected,” said Mop.

“Exactly,” said the man, as if that settled everything. “Come in.”

Inside, the shed was much bigger than it had any right to be. In fact, Mop thought, it seemed likely that it would be possible to fit about a dozen sheds inside it. It smelled of old paper, warm socks, and retained a lingering whiff of things cheesy that didn’t quite exist anymore, but were too polite to leave.

Shelves stretched into the distance, stacked with items that shimmered slightly out of sync with reality. There were jars labeled **“Forgotten Names - Last Tuesday’s”**, **“Unspent Compliments”**, and **“Childhood Dreams (Sadly Unused).”**

“This,” said the man, gesturing grandly, “is where all the mislaid wonders end up. The things people hoped for but didn’t get. We store them here, catalogue them, make sure they don’t clog up the timelines.”

“No gold?” said Mop, trying not to stare at a half-eaten sandwich floating in a jar marked **“Unfinished Lunches of the Existentially Doomed.”**

“Oh, we used to do gold. Great pots of it. But it got complicated you know. What with the bloody inflation, leprechaun unions, complaints about rapacious dragons. All that. Just too much trouble really. And anyway, these days, people want… well… other things. Lost ideas. Could-have-beens. Pocket universes filled with unspoken apologies. You know… you’ll have seen the shops on every High Street - packed with stuff nobody needs.”

The man handed Mop a clipboard. “Here. You’re down on this list for a ‘misfiled wonder’. Something about ‘a day where nothing went wrong.’ Been waiting years to be claimed.”

Mop stared. It wasn’t gold. It wasn’t glory. But he remembered, dimly, the feeling of waking up with no dread in his stomach. The kind of day where the world didn’t press down on you like a badly folded lead duvet.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

“Good choice,” the man nodded. “Very rare. Only slightly radioactive, and that only on Wednesdays.”

As Mop left the shed, rainbow fading behind him like a stage curtain after a very strange play, Gertie looked up.

“Well?” her doggy expression said.

“No gold,” Mop told her. “But I’ve got tomorrow to look forward to. Might be a good one.”

Gertie considered that, then started walking. Rainbows were all well and good, but supper wasn’t going to eat itself.