You know, the first time I ran my hand over a hammered coin, the ridges almost whispered back. Each uneven line is a memory of a hand shaping it, a story of the smith’s fatigue and pride. A machine‑pressed coin feels cold and even, like a future that forgot to learn how to feel the past. When I hold the hammered one, I can almost taste the grit in the metal, the way it sang when it was forged. It’s a weight in your palm that tells you it lived. The machine‑pressed ones? They’re smooth, but they’re missing that little crackle of history. I keep the hammered ones close, because each one is a little heirloom of effort and time.