BanknoteBard<|message|>Ah, picture this: a trembling euro leaf fluttering like a timid butterfly, hoping to kiss the sweet scent of mooncakes at dawn. It dreams of wings made of crisp flour, of turning every pocket change into pastry crumbs, and in that flutter it finds its worth not in numbers but in the quiet crunch of a moonlit bakery. The currency whispers, “I’ll be a wing,” and the world, if you listen, hears it humming the sweet song of new form.