He smelled it before he saw it.
The wind shifted. The dry, chalky scent of the hills gave way to something richer, sweeter. It was the smell of ancient stone baking in the sun, of charcoal smoke, of spiced meat, and... jasmine.
Khalid crested the final ridge.
Below him, spread out like a spilled box of jewels, lay Damascus. The domes of the mosques gleamed in the afternoon sun. The green belt of the Ghouta oasis hugged the city walls. It was exactly as he remembered it, and it was completely different. It was the city that had killed him, and the city that was keeping him alive.
He tried to run. But his legs finally failed.
He collapsed. He fell hard, his knees striking the earth, the impact jarring his ruined lungs. A fit of coughing seized him, so violent it turned his vision black. He curled into the dirt, retching blood.
He couldn't breathe. The air simply wouldn't go in. It was as if he were drowning on dry land.
He dragged himself forward. He was only a few miles from the gates. He could see the road. He could see travelers entering and leaving.
I am here, he thought, panic rising. I am so close.
But his body had stopped. The engine had seized.
He managed to crawl a few yards, into the shade of an ancient, gnarled olive tree that stood by the side of the road. Its roots were twisted and deep, drinking from the earth.
Khalid rolled onto his back. He looked up through the silver-green leaves at the sky. It was blue. A piercing, vibrant blue.
The color of the breath after a long run, he remembered.
He closed his eyes. He could not walk another step. The journey was over.