She deliberately opened her eyes to the darkness in the room. She could see nothing.

She could hear a distant cockcrow. Even now, with the dawn still distant, the roosters were crowing back and forth.

Far away — where, she could not tell— one crowed. Then another, as if to answer the first. Then another. Then another. The crowing of roosters in the middle of the night, fittingly, knows no end. It went on again. It went on beyond ending.

…yet, there wasn’t a thing

– Yukio Mishima