The old wound sits square in the middle of the road you are meant to walk forward, one milestone marking both the hurt and the heading. Chiron, the limping centaur whose hurt taught it everything, fuses with the north node, the lunar point that names the direction you grow toward, no body in the sky but an arrow drawn on the chart. The place that aches and the way ahead are one and the same step. You walk into what comes next through the exact tenderness you would rather skirt. There is no detour around the sore spot, because the sore spot is the road. The trap is reading the limp as a reason to stand still, when it is the very thing pointing you on.