Near the worn path you always take, a short trail bends toward the old wound, and the gate along it stands unlatched. Chiron, the centaur whose limp became its teaching, makes a sextile to the south node, the lunar point of the familiar ground you are ready to set down. The opening waits without a single push. Let the long-carried hurt teach you what to keep and what to lay down, and the well-known place eases its grip on your sleeve. The gate moves only when you reach for it: the day you stop hoarding the old ache out of habit and let it show you which parts of the past have done their work and can be set quietly aside.