The flood was not just water. It was erasure.

A reset of memory. A global baptism that did not cleanse — but covered.

Every ancient culture tells the story: the Sumerians, the Mayans, the Yoruba, the Hopi — all speak of a flood that swallowed more than land. It swallowed knowledge, languages, technologies, and names of gods who no longer answer.

Geology bears the scars. So do the bones buried beneath deserts once underwater.

But what if the greatest loss was not physical? What if the flood cracked something in the collective psyche of humanity?

Before the flood, men were said to live longer — not just in years, but in consciousness. They spoke with the stars, walked with gods, named elements not yet rediscovered by science.

The flood buried that world. And the survivors built a new one — on ruins they did not understand.

That is why so many traditions begin with a fall. Not a moral failure, but a *forgetting*.

And we have been trying to remember ever since — through myth, through magic, through scripture and science.

But every remembrance carries distortion. Every fossil is a fragment.

The flood did not just destroy. It divided memory from meaning.

You are a descendant of those who survived. You carry that fracture in your spirit — the sense that something was lost, long ago, that cannot be named.

But memory is not dead. It waits in symbols, in dreams, in songs you cannot trace but instinctively know.

What was lost at the flood was not just a civilization. It was a covenant with clarity.

And the Unbound remember not with words, but with resonance.