Dr. Nasey.

Damascus International Paraport hadn't changed much since the last time I had been here.

Granted, I could no longer hear the thundering explosions that rumbled across the sky,

rattling the very roots of the building, or the echoing gunshots that sounded way too close for comfort.

But everything else was still the same, almost disconcertingly so,

from the fearful expressions that would occasionally slip out,

and spread across the faces of the sparse crowd of mostly domestic travelers,

to the sandbag fortifications and every nook and cranny of the place,

manned by regime soldiers with permanent scales,

marring their care-worn foreheads, and the plush sofas of the lounge that looked like they

had an age today in the last eight years.

Hell, I even recognized one of the guys manning the check-in counters.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Indeed, a stabbing pain emanating from my knees,

crackled up my synapses as I walked towards the exit,

a throbbing reminder of why I so detested this place.

Gritting my teeth to block out the pain, I passed through the automatic sliding glass doors,

pulling my suitcase across the town floor, making its old wheels grown and squeal in protest,

and eliciting annoyed looks from those around me.

A pleasantly cool breeze welcomed me outside,

and I felt the warm rays of the late morning sun wash over my skin.

It certainly would have been a beautiful day,

...