Junk

Junk is the world's near-worthless residue — bent spoons, cracked idols, spent wand cores, letters the rain got to first. It turns up where people once were: dug out of the earth, fished from pockets, left behind in abandoned rooms. Merchants will give you a few coppers for the lot — hauling a bag of it to a vendor is its own small ritual — and every piece says something about where it was found. Once in a while, something that looks like trash sells for a surprising handful of silver.