1. Gemma "Gems" Aragon
The alarm rang at six.
Gemma Aragon groaned and rolled over in her narrow bed. The morning light slanted weakly through the cracked shutters of her family's modest house. The scent of garlic rice drifted from the kitchen, and she could hear her mother already humming while preparing breakfast.
"Gemma! Don't be late for class!" her mother called.
"I'm not, Ma," Gems answered, though she still hadn't moved.
Senior year. She should have been excited-only a year left before graduation. But the weight of expectation pressed on her chest like a stone. She wasn't just studying for herself. She was studying for her family, for her younger brother who looked up to her, for her father who had spent thirty years as a jeepney driver so she could sit in a classroom with air-conditioning.
At the small dining table, her father handed her a worn envelope. "Your allowance, Gem. Be careful with it, ah? It has to last the week."
She nodded, though she wished she didn't see the calluses on his hands, the exhaustion in his eyes. She promised herself-again-that she would make this last year worth it.
At school, people called her "the scholar girl," "the diligent one." She carried that like armor. But deep down, Gems was tired. Tired of always being the serious one, the dependable one. Tired of being reminded of what she could not afford.
She tucked her hair behind her ears, squared her shoulders, and left for class.
---
2. Marky dela Cruz
Marky's mornings began with the smell of coffee and the rustle of newspapers. His father was a lawyer; his mother, a literature teacher. Their two-story home brimmed with books, framed diplomas, and a quiet pressure to excel.
Unlike Gems, Marky didn't have to worry about money. His family was comfortable, and they often reminded him of the opportunities that comfort provided. But he carried a different kind of burden: expectation.
"Remember, anak," his father said over breakfast, "grad school applications start this semester. Keep your record spotless. One mistake can close doors."
Marky nodded, though he wanted to argue that life wasn't a checklist. Still, he had learned long ago to be the "good son." Quiet, steady, reliable.
At school, Marky was liked by many but close to few. His gentle nature drew people, but his reserve kept them at arm's length. Only in history classes did he come alive, tracing maps, studying old battles, wondering what it felt like to walk roads where millions had marched before.
That morning, as he packed his bag, he slipped in his grandfather's fountain pen-a relic of another time. It was his good luck charm, and he would need it.
---
3. Ryan "Ry" Montemayor
For Ry, mornings didn't begin with alarm clocks. They began when he chose.
That day, it was the blaring bass of his car's speakers that jolted him awake, courtesy of his friend who had stopped by after a night of drinking. Ry staggered out of his sleek condominium, hair a mess, still wearing the wristband from last night's club.
He lived alone. His parents were too busy with business meetings in Singapore or Dubai. Money was never a problem-he had more than enough in his accounts to cover whims and indulgences. But affection? Attention? Those were rarer commodities.
Still, Ry wore confidence like armor. He was the guy who always had the newest phone, the flashiest sneakers, the best car. At school, people orbited him like satellites, drawn to his energy, his charisma.
But deep down, Ry felt restless. History was his chosen major not out of passion but rebellion-his father wanted him in business. And though he laughed off the seriousness of his classmates, part of him envied their dedication.
That morning, he downed two aspirins, slid on his sunglasses, and smirked at his reflection. Whatever this semester threw at him, he'd find a way to spin it into fun.
---
4. Amos Villanueva
Amos' mornings started with laughter-or rather, with him trying to force laughter out of the silence of his cramped boarding room.
He shared the place with three other students, and it always smelled faintly of instant noodles and damp laundry. Unlike Gems, Amos wasn't poor-poor, but his family in the province could only send so much. He stretched his allowance with side hustles: writing online articles, tutoring, even performing stand-up comedy at a local bar on weekends.
"Life's a joke, pare," he often said. "Might as well laugh at it before it laughs at you."
Behind the humor, though, was a sharp mind. Amos remembered dates, events, obscure trivia no one else cared about. He loved history the way some people loved gossip-it was the ultimate drama. Empires rising and falling, wars fought over love or pride.
But his humor made professors underestimate him. That was fine. He liked being underestimated.
That morning, Amos rehearsed a few jokes in the mirror. "What's older than my lola's love life? The Appian Way." He grinned. Class was going to be fun.
---
5. Aurora "Au" Castillo
Aurora-or "Au," as she insisted-was not a morning person.
She dragged herself out of bed in her dorm suite, groaning as sunlight pierced through sheer curtains. The room was decorated with fashion posters, string lights, and more makeup palettes than textbooks.
Her family ran a chain of beauty salons, and Au carried herself with the confidence of someone used to being admired. She was always impeccably dressed, nails painted, lips glossed.
But beneath the glamorous surface, Au was deeply insecure. Her parents often compared her to her older sister, a law student with "real ambition." Au's love for history was dismissed as a "cute hobby."
She hated that. She wanted to prove she was more than appearances. That she could stand on her own, write something meaningful, be taken seriously.
History fascinated her not for wars or politics but for culture-clothes, music, rituals. The humanity of the past.
That morning, as she adjusted her earrings, she whispered to her reflection: "This is my year. My story. My road."
----
The School begins
The first week of classes at Queencess University always had a restless energy to it. New faces lingered in corridors, old ones reunited in noisy cliques, and the air smelled faintly of floor polish mixed with cafeteria bread.
By the time all five found themselves in Professor RV's class, their lives had already set them on intersecting paths.
The lecture hall buzzed with voices. Students shuffled papers, checked phones, whispered gossip.
But for Gems, the start of senior year in the History Department was supposed to feel triumphant. She had survived three grueling years of papers, all-nighters, and exams. But now, staring at the syllabus Professor RV had distributed, she felt her stomach sink.
HIST 402: Special Topics in World History
Final requirement: Group Thesis and Presentation
Professor Rafael Velasquez-RV to everyone-enters the room and stood at the front of the lecture hall, his movements precise and his posture sharp as a spear. His hair had gone grayer since last semester, but his voice carried the same crisp authority. He commanded respect not by shouting but by the weight of his presence.
"Welcome to Special Topics in World History," he said. "This class will test not just your knowledge, but your perspective. We will study roads-not just as infrastructure, but as witnesses. They carried armies, slaves, pilgrims, lovers. They carried blood. They carried memory."
"This course," he add, "is not about memorizing dates or kings. It is about memory itself. How the past lives in stone, in ritual, in blood." His eyes scanned the room, pausing just long enough to make students squirm
His gaze swept the room. "And memory is never innocent."
Pens scratched against paper. Some students leaned forward eagerly, others doodled.
"You will work in groups of five. This thesis is not just research-it is immersion. Find the pulse of history. Make it breathe."
Each group will choose a theme tied to our semester's focus-The Oldest Pathways of Civilization. Roads, rivers, trade routes. The bones of history."
A murmur rippled through the class.
"Your task is simple: trace not just the facts, but the lived experiences that these roads carry. Because roads are not dead. They are veins. They connect, they divide, they witness. They do not forget."
Gems felt a chill at the phrasing. She pressed her pen to her notebook, jotting fragments: roads as witnesses... memory... veins.
He began reading names. Groups formed, chatter filling the air.
Professor RV he calls the last names, assembling groups. "Marky dela Cruz, Amos Villanueva, Au Castillo, Ryan Montemayor, and... Gemma Aragon. You're together."
Gems exhaled sharply. Of course.
She turned, meeting the others' eyes one by one.
Marky, seated a row behind her, offered a small, reassuring smile. He was reliable, bookish, with dark hair that always fell into his eyes. They had worked together before, and Gems liked his quiet focus.
Amos, slouched in his chair, gave a lazy salute. His reputation for cracking jokes in the middle of serious discussions was legendary.
Au, stylish and outspoken, was already whispering to the girl next to her about how "roads are boring unless they lead somewhere worth shopping."
And Ry Montemayor-the son of a business tycoon, effortlessly confident. He was tapping away on his expensive phone, barely pretending to listen.
Gems sighed. It would be a long semester.
And just like that, their fates were bound.
None of them knew that the roads they would walk together had been waiting centuries ago for their footsteps.