The old wound stands at your back while the road forward stretches away across the open field, the two ends staring down one long beam. Chiron, the limping centaur whose hurt became its teaching, faces the north node, the lunar point of the direction you grow toward, from the far end of the axis. The ache holds the ground behind you, the unfamiliar way pulls from in front, and you feel split along the line between. Step toward what you are becoming and the scar tugs your sleeve from the other pole. You travel honestly only by keeping the hurt and the heading turned toward each other across that gap, neither one dragging you wholly into the past nor letting you bolt clean out of it.
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