Walk in dragging an old limp and the room where you breathe easiest still opens wide, the floor already warm under your feet. Chiron, the centaur whose injury turned into its wisdom, forms a trine to your Part of Fortune, the ease-point your chart figures from rising sign, Sun, and Moon by sect. The scar and the soft landing share one settled climate you simply live inside. What once cut you now lines your comfort with a quiet that asks for nothing back, the way a callus lets you grip something hot without a wince. No prize is being handed over. Only the plain gift of resting most fully right where you were once hurt.