The next day, when John made his way downstairs, he found his breakfast already prepared and waiting for him at the kitchen table. Stiffly, he sat down and absentmindedly munched through his first piece of toast, his blank eyes hazily staring at the empty space in front of him.

Susan hovered in the doorway, silently watching as John slowly worked his way through his breakfast. When John picked up and bit into his third piece of toast, she approached the table and sat down in the chair opposite John.

"What happened?" she asked after a moment, reaching a hand out to nudge John's. She watched as her son slowly came back to himself, his eyes focusing on their joined hands.

"Nothing happened," John replied, pulling his hand out from his mother's touch. "What makes you think that something happened?"

The ends of Susan's mouth pulled down as her eyebrows furrowed. She kept her hand where it was, relaxing her fingers against the well-worn wood.. "You just ate three pieces of toast," she stated, staring intently at John's now empty plate.

"I guess I was hungry," John said, swallowing thickly. "Just because I ate three pieces of toast doesn't mean that something is wrong, mum."

Susan nodded. "I know, sweetie, but you just ate three pieces of toast with orange marmalade. And drank your coffee, not tea, that was fixed up with far more milk and sugar than you can stand. So something must have happened to make you not notice the food you just ate."

John sat still under his mother's unwavering gaze, an embarrassed heat blooming across his cheeks and warming the tips of his ears. "I don't really want to talk about it," he murmured, staring down at his lap.

"Want to or not," Susan started, pausing to lean closer to her son, "we're going to talk about it, John. Four days ago I got a call from your school nurse. She told me you had passed out and that you needed someone to come get you. So I came straight from work and found you laying in the sick bay, unconscious, with a burnt arm so black I thought someone had smeared pen ink all over you."

John fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat and mumbled something under his breath, the words vanishing under his mother's intense gaze.

"And then, I brought you home and hauled you to your bed where you slept for three days. I had to wake you up, spoon soup into your mouth, and take care of you since you didn't have the strength or ability to do it yourself."

John cleared his throat and looked around the room, his eyes flicking to everything he could focus on that wasn't his mother.

"When you finally wake up, three days later, you seem to have a perfectly normal afternoon until you learn what the date is. You spent half the night in that bathroom- I know, I heard you throwing up, John- and now you've just eaten a breakfast you normally can't stand without batting an eye. So I'll ask you again, John. What happened?"

John opened and closed his mouth a few times, his carefully formulated reply dead on his tongue. Finally, after a few attempts at speaking, John raised his still-bandaged arm, laid it on the table, and turned it so that his Clock was facing up clearly within his mother's range of sight. "Two years, seven months, fourteen days," he whispered, his attention fading out somewhere between the oven and the refrigerator.

Susan leaned forward and gingerly pulled John's hand into her own, cradling his wrist as she looked. She could see the edges of his still-healing skin peeking out from under the edge of the bandage. Nodding minutely, she allowed her gaze to travel down the length of John's healed wrist, stopping when she got to his Clock. Just as it said, the numbers revealed just under three years left until they hit zero. She sat there in silence with her son, watching his Clock as they breathed in tandem. After a minute, Susan's breath hitched as she realized that John's Countdown hadn't changed. Reverently, she rubbed a thumb over the slightly scratched surface, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to remember the first time John had shown an interest in the little, green, plastic box.

John was six the first time he actively noticed the Clocks. He had been left to sit on the countertop beside his mother while she put together a birthday cake for Harry. There, amongst the flour, eggs, and sugar, John had seen the thin, red line dart across the crease of her wrist. He'd stared, unbridled, for ages, eagerly waiting to catch another glance at the jagged, red line.

"Do I have something on my hands, Johnny?" she'd asked, flexing her fingers and twisting her palms.

John had jumped, knocking his heels loudly against the lower cabinets. "N-no!" he'd stuttered, ears burning with embarrassment as he chewed on his lower lip. "Just the red line that's always been there. Why don't I have one?"

Susan smiled fondly at her son and nudged his nose. "Let me finish Harry's cake, and then I'll tell you about the Clocks, okay?" she asked.

John just nodded and went back to silently watching as his mother worked. Twenty minutes later, Harry's cake was moved to the fridge and Susan was loading their plain, wooden tea tray with all of John's favorite things. Gently, she guided her son to the living room, poured hot tea into two slightly chipped mugs, and settled into the lumpy, floral armchair that had belonged to her mother. Smiling, she watched as John fixed up his own cup, the liquid sloshing around inside more hot milk and sugar than tea.

"Will you tell me about the Clocks now?" John asked, peering up at his mother from behind the mug clutched tightly between his stubby fingers.

After taking a sip of her own tea, Susan nodded. She set her cup back down on the tea tray and offered her upturned wrist to John, watching as his eyes widened and snapped back to her Heartmark. "when everyone is born, they all have a Clock in their wrist," she began. "And each Clock counts down the amount of time before its owner meets their Soulmate."

John looked puzzled and dropped his gaze to inspect his own Clock. "I have a Soulmate?" he asked, his tiny voice barely audible, his words muffled with awe.

Susan nodded again and reached forward, taking John's hands in her own. "Yes," she replied, turning his wrists up to swipe a warm thumb over his Clock. "Absolutely, John. Everyone has a Soulmate."

John had gaped slack-jawed at the bulky, green rectangle nestled in the bend of his wrist. "And my Clock tells me how much time is left before I meet them?" he asked.

Susan chuckled and looked closely at John's Clock. "That's right, dear. You're doing so well at remembering. Now, what does your Clock say?"

John tilted his head to the side and concentrated hard, his tongue peeking out from between his thin lips. "Thirteen years, four months, and six days," he answered after a moment. "That seems like forever away!"

"I know, Johnny," Susan commented, releasing her son's hands to pick up her teacup once more. "But twenty is a very young age to meet your Soulmate. You're lucky, sweetheart. I had to wait until I was thirty-two before I met your father."

"And what happened then?" John asked, hastily grabbing his teacup to mirror his mother's movements.

Susan closed her eyes and went still for a moment, lost to a memory from ten years ago. "I met your dad and my Clock fell off. He bent down, picked it up, and handed it to me," she replied. "As soon as we touched, I got my Heartmark."

"What's a Heartmark?" John asked, eyes flickering to where his mother's wrist had been turned red.

"It's a very special mark shared between two Soulmates," Susan sighed. "No two are alike. Do you remember when we went to go see Grandad Watson in the hospital last month?"

John nodded.

"Well, he was hooked up to a machine that took pictures of his heartbeat so the doctors could see. Do you remember that?"

John nodded again, squirming restlessly in his seat.

"Well, a Heartmark is a lot like that. It's a picture of your Soulmate's heartbeat, but you only get it once you meet."

John had furrowed his eyebrows then, his nose crinkling while he organized his thoughts. "That's cool, I guess. Can I go outside and play, now?" he asked.

Susan chuckled, leaned forward, and ruffled John's hair. "Finish your tea first, and then yes, you can go outside and play."

John beamed and quickly finished his tea, tipping his head back to drink the sweetened liquid as fast as he could manage. When his cup was empty, he placed it in the sink, pulled on his shoes and sweater, and kissed his mother's cheek before he ran out the door to roll around in the leaves.

Eleven years ago, Susan had hovered by the window and watched as John ran around and played, his cheeks growing redder as the hours faded with the sun. Now, Susan hovered by the same window and watched as John curled into himself on the couch. With a sigh, she draped an old, knitted, throw blanket over his lap, settled into her chair, and turned on the television. Hopefully, with a little bit of time, John would be okay.