A side door sits ajar near the threshold where you greet the world, and behind it waits a way of arriving that turns the old scar into welcome. Chiron, the centaur whose limp became its teaching and never a planet with mass, forms a sextile to your rising horizon, an opening offered rather than a fixed trait. Let the hurt soften how you meet a stranger and your first contact gains a depth no polish ever reaches. The door will not swing for you. It widens the day you stop hiding the cut at the entrance and let it gentle your approach. Pick it up by greeting people from the very ground where you once felt turned away.
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