The old scar and the road you grow toward run side by side down one gentle slope, the ground already smooth between them. Chiron, the centaur whose injury turned into its wisdom, forms a trine to the north node, the lunar point of the direction you reach for. The tender place and the way ahead share one easy climate, so the hurt does not bar the road, it oils the hinges. What once cut you now lights the next step with a knowing that asks for nothing back, the way a worn map you trust falls open to the right page. Watch only that you do not assume everyone walks forward with wound and heading dropping so quietly into the same stride.