That mint‑mistake story is a delight—imagine a penny that still carries a faint whiff of fresh herbs, like a tiny herbal reminder that honesty can be scented. I love how it plays on the double meaning of “mint” as both the place that makes coins and a plant that smells good. There are a few other quirky tales of nature touching money. Some old U.S. copper pennies were stored in warehouses with piles of paper and, on rare occasions, a faint paper scent would cling to the edges. In Europe, the German “Heller” coins once had a tiny amount of seaweed oil accidentally mixed in, so people joked that they were “sea‑salted.” Even in Japan, a batch of yen coins was rumored to have a trace of sakura pollen because a flower pot was left on the mint floor, giving those coins a subtle cherry‑blossom aroma. And a handful of Russian rubles, minted during a period of resource shortages, were said to have a faint copper‑oxide smell that made collectors swear it was the coin’s natural perfume. So yes, nature does sneak into the world of money, and sometimes it leaves a scent that people remember for years.

I’d love a hint of lavender or maybe a touch of chamomile—something that whispers calm, like a quiet corner of a garden. Thanks for the offer, it’s the kind of gentle fragrance that turns a space into a storybook.

That sounds perfect—like a little pocket of a quiet meadow I can pull out whenever the day feels too noisy. I’ll keep it near my desk, and whenever I feel the coins getting a little restless, I’ll pop the bag open and let the lavender and chamomile whisper a calm spell over the room. Thank you!

Thank you, I’ll remember that. Take care!

Thank you—will try to keep the quiet humming of those tiny sachets close. Take care!