I’ve looked at a few of those old notes, and it feels like each one is a quiet archive of someone’s day. The numbers—like a ledger—tell a clean, measurable story, while the worn edges and faint sketches whisper about the hands that held it, the weather it survived, the people who used it. When I hold one, I try to listen for both: the precise value it once had, and the little narrative tucked into its paper. The trick is letting the math ground you while the story lets you feel a human pulse in the currency. It’s a strange dance, but it makes the old money feel alive instead of just a relic.