On the side of the road, with the rumble of cars, trucks, buses and bikes slowly passing them by, a young family sits in almost silence.
Using the suitcases carrying the few belongings they have as seats, they wait a few hundred metres away from a Lebanese military checkpoint.
At first it isn't clear what they're waiting for.
They're wary of speaking to the press so we don't get a chance to ask.
They may well struggle to be heard over the horns being used every few seconds anyway.
Many others have passed them by, in all variety of vehicles, crossing the border from the Lebanese town of Masnaa into Syria.
The cost of hiring a taxi to cross may be too steep.
But after about an hour, a bright red rickshaw arrives — perhaps the more affordable option.
The father hauls the heavy cases, swinging them onto the roof and tying them down with rope — a precarious, rather than precise, approach to luggage transportation.
And as he bundles his young family into the three-wheeler, its engine revving to cope with the heavy load, their tired and stony expressions give way to smiles and a thumbs up.
Like many Syrians in Lebanon, they're finally going home.
Years away from home
The line up at the Maasna crossing is long, but surprisingly not that slow.
It is moving at a decent pace, even with some creative lane merging techniques as three lanes of traffic becomes one at the point where vehicles pass the concrete barriers and razor wire.
There is a mixture of people queuing to enter Syria.
Among them truck drivers carrying freight into Syria for sale, taxi drivers ferrying passengers across the border, United Nations staff in their trademark white vehicles, curious Lebanese citizens eager to see the new Syria and, of course, Syrians themselves who've been living in Lebanon for many years.
Soumaya walks past, on her way to the Lebanese government office to get her passport stamped by authorities so she can cross into Syria.
There are no such checks on the other side.
With a smile on her face and the sun glinting off her black leather shoes, it is a trip Soumaya has imagined and wished to make for 15 years.
"We are finally going back to our country — but at the same time, we're going to miss our second country Lebanon," she says.
She's still got quite a journey to make.
Masnaa may be less than an hour from Damascus, but it is a four and a half hour journey to her family home in Idlib in the north of Syria once through the checkpoint.
"My dad died in the bombings, and the rest of the family are between Syria, Lebanon and Türkiye," she says.
"Of course I'm very happy, its been 15 years since I've seen my parents.
"But at the same time, I love Lebanon, I'm very attached to it."
Also waiting in line is Suleiman, with a car full of fellow travellers.
He has not been home to Damascus in Syria for four years.
"Of course I'm happy, I'm finally going back to see my family," he says.
"They're alive, thank God."
As Suleiman drives on, other cars are lined up behind him weighed down by their cargo, the rear suspension straining under the heavy luggage load.
Travellers coming in both directions
On the rocky hills lining the sides of the passage into Syria, people can be seen travelling on foot with bags strapped to their back.
There's a foreign currency exchange doing a roaring trade, as people swap Lebanese pounds for Syrian pounds — and vice versa.
Some crossing into Lebanon are doing the last leg on foot, with Syrian taxis being blocked from crossing into Lebanon.
Lebanese cabs, however, can cross in both directions.
Local drivers standing near the gates in Masnaa are advertising their services, offering rides to Beirut and beyond.
Some people who didn’t need taxis were senior members of the Assad regime, who passed through here in the moments before former president Bashar al-Assad was toppled, aided by Lebanese militant group Hezbollah.
Their cars were allegedly given Lebanese registration plates, with border officials paid to look the other way — one official reportedly sacked by the Lebanese Government as a result.
The cost to head home
A short drive away in the village of Bar Elias is a refugee camp, housing many Syrians.
On the map, it's named 'Camp 047 Righteous'.
Children are playing between the white tarpaulin tents, which are lined up in rows behind the chain link fencing.
They have not packed their bags yet to make the journey home.
The cost of taxis alone to the border, let alone beyond, is prohibitive.
"It's hard, we can't find a car to go there," 14 year old Ali says.
"Everyone around here wants to go back, but it's not an easy thing."
Ali was born in Syria, but came to Lebanon as a baby.
His friend Ibrahim, 16, has also been living in the camp for most of his life.
"I don't remember Syria, but when I see on my phone what's happening there," he says.
"I am ecstatic and hope for the best for my country."
Whether these boys and their families can get back to their homes remains to be seen.
But their hope for the future, after years of chaos, seemingly knows no bounds.
