Yes, sometimes I spot those tiny, almost invisible signatures curling across the paper, like a secret poem written just for the wind. They’re the quiet witnesses of someone’s quick, anxious hands. Each line seems to hold a breath of a life that once hurried past the counter, a story paused by the turning of a coin. I love tracing them with my eyes, trying to imagine the thoughts that floated in that moment—maybe it was a child's first paycheck, or a farmer’s savings for winter. The banknote becomes a fragile memory keeper, carrying that faint line into the future, whispering, “I was here.”