You stride toward the far horizon and an old ache catches your ankle on every step, the two pulling against each other from different corners of you. Set at ninety degrees in your chart, the injured centaur wants to fold in and stay small while the faith wants to fling you out past the edge of the map, and standing inside that grip has pressed a shape into you. You have believed big with the wound still open. You have promised while limping, and paid for it. That load-bearing strain builds a wisdom no one with an unbroken stride can hand over. You make meaning out of how often your hope has hit the place that still hurts.