Stand in the doorway and the old sore spot waits at the far wall, watching the corner where you usually drop your bags. Chiron, the limping centaur whose hurt became its teaching, faces your Part of Fortune from the opposite end of the axis, and that settling-point your chart figures from rising sign, Sun, and Moon by sect stares right back. The place you unclench keeps catching the eye of the place that still throbs. Reach for the comfortable corner and the wound tugs your gaze across the room. No windfall is coming to settle this. These are two ends of one beam, pinned apart, each refusing to pretend the other has gone quiet.