The face you meet the world with stands across from your South Node, and by the same geometry that leaves the North Node, the direction you came to stretch toward, out ahead of you. Your South Node, the familiar end of the lunar nodes, a calculated directional axis and never a planet, faces your rising horizon. Each pole names what the other forgets: the way you arrive reaches toward the unfamiliar while the old ground reels it straight back, the habit narrowing your approach, the new heading prying it open again. Some days the familiar greeting reclaims you whole. Other days you arrive reaching well past it. The mirror asks you to lift your weight off the well-worn mask without pretending it never carried you anywhere.