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The shore rose like a promise from the mist. After weeks of travel, weeks of hunger and uncertainty, the green land ahead shimmered under the sunlight like a dream too beautiful to be true. But it was real. And as the ship creaked closer, guided gently by wind and prayer, the people onboard felt something they hadn't in a long time: hope.

They docked quietly, careful not to draw attention, but their arrival had not gone unnoticed. Within minutes, people from the town gathered along the pier—not with weapons or suspicion, but with smiles, and words of welcome.

"Peace be upon you," called a man with a thick grey beard, his tone warm. "Where do you come from? Are you well?"

Zayd stepped forward, still weak but standing tall. "Peace be upon you, too. We come from Tartus. The war forced us out. We've lost everything."

The crowd grew quiet, then the elder man nodded. "Then you are our guests. Come. You will find rest here."

They were led through clean streets lined with olive trees and bright fabric stalls. The air smelled of bread and spice. There were mosques with open doors and quiet gardens, and everywhere they looked, there were Muslims—families, merchants, children laughing in the sun. It felt like a city from another world, one untouched by the chaos they'd fled.

"It's like the stories," whispered Amira, clinging to Alya's arm. "Like the fairytales mother used to tell us."

Alya smiled, though her eyes shimmered. "Yes. But this is real."

At the town center, they were given food—dates, olives, warm flatbread and thick lentil soup. Children ran past with kites. A woman with kind eyes approached and gently touched Umm al-Kabira's arm. "You must stay. As long as you like. Forever, even. You’ve done enough wandering. This can be your home."

They were offered shelter at a small hotel, old but clean, its walls whitewashed and bright. Each person shared a room: Samir with Zayd, Khalid with little Tariq, Alya with Amira, and Umm al-Kabira with Ilham. Abdullah chose to stay alone, still carrying silence like armor.

That night, they gathered in the hotel courtyard. Zayd leaned against the wall, a blanket wrapped around his still-healing chest.

"We could build homes here," Samir said, looking toward the hills beyond. "Start again."

"They have markets. Water. Mosques," added Ilham.

"And peace," whispered Amira.

Alya glanced at Zayd, whose face was turned toward the stars. "We deserve a place to rest. Even if it's not forever."

He looked back at her. "Maybe it is forever. Allah writes the journeys. We just follow the road."

And for the first time in many chapters of their lives, nobody spoke of leaving.

Alya :

It was a chilly morning. Not cold enough to see your breath, but the kind of chill that settled into the sleeves of your abaya and lingered at the tips of your fingers. The room we stayed in was small, shared with Amira, and it smelled faintly of old wood and something sweet—dates maybe, or someone’s forgotten perfume. Amira was still asleep, one arm over her eyes, her soft breathing the only sound beside the distant murmur of the city outside.

I pulled on my scarf and wrapped it tight, pushing open the small window just a bit. The air outside was clean in a way sea air never is. It smelled of olive trees, fresh bread, and woodsmoke. And underneath it, a quiet hum of life. Children’s voices. Hooves on stone. Someone laughing too loudly in a street too narrow.

This place wasn’t ours. Not yet. But for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like a ghost drifting between ruins. Here, the streets had color. There were marigolds in the cracks between stones, potted herbs in every window, and cats sunbathing like royalty.