The old wound rests on the worn familiar ground you keep circling back to, one hollow cupping both the ache and the habit. Chiron, the limping centaur whose hurt taught it everything, fuses with the south node, the lunar point of what is well-known and ready to be set down, no body but an arrow drawn backward on the chart. The hurt and the old comfort are one settled place. You reach for the wound the way you reach for a sagging chair, knowing exactly how it gives. Real skill is stored in that ache, hauled here from far behind you. The trap is curling into the familiar pain because its shape is known, when the whole point is to lay it down and walk on.