The old wound sits in the familiar hollow at your back while something unmet faces it from clear across the room. Chiron, the limping centaur whose hurt became its teaching, faces the south node, the lunar point of the well-worn past you are meant to set down, from the far end of the axis. The ache you know by heart and the call to leave it stare each other down the length of the beam. Some days you sink into the familiar hurt because its shape fits your hand, some days everything ahead pulls at you to drop it. You move honestly only by keeping the old comfort and the wound turned toward each other across that gap, neither one allowed to talk over the other.