[ WP ] You wake up in your studio apartment one day to find a mysterious clock . Standing in front of the clock words flash across the screen saying , `` TIME . UNTIL . DEATH . '' You see a countdown of 7 years , 43 days , 50 hours , and 27 minutes . You try to tinker with it and the countdown drops to 4 days .

Jon rolled his eyes in disgust. Did people really think this kind of shit was funny? 
 
 Jon loved clocks. They had been a part of his life since before he could remember. His grandfather had apprenticed in the shops of Breguet, in Switzerland, for heaven's sake - making watches for royalty. Down through the family and the years had passed more than a love - a *respect* for timekeepers of all shapes and sizes. 
 
 A master watchmaker now in his own right, he was frequently called upon by auction houses and universities to opine on their latest acquisitions. He prided himself on his open mind towards all things horological; certainly the modern incarnations with their batteries and quartz mechanisms lacked the character of their ancestors, but still - they had their place. And even the lowliest of them usually performed their duties with quiet solemnity. But this - this was a farce, an affront. Even worse, he could n't even remember where this ugly red-cased monstrosity came from. 
 
 After reading the original 7 year warning on its face, he allowed his practiced hands a single pass over the case, whereupon they instinctively located the tiny hidden switch on the corner. After depressing the mechanism the display had, instead of switching off as he had expected, flashed randomly before settling on a new time of slightly more than 4 days. 
 
 Hmmph. Reflexively glancing at the Rolex on his wrist, he briefly thought to himself, `` That's Saturday... lunchtime. Ridiculous...'' before unceremoniously tossing the device into the trashbin. He had already wasted too much precious time on this thing as it was. 
 
 *************************************** 
 
 Saturday's lunch was as fine an affair as Jon could have expected, courtesy of an appreciative, well-heeled client and an unassuming French bistro with an unexpectedly diverse wine list. He walked back through the front door of his apartment just as the clock tower on the town hall rang two o'clock. 
 
 As he stepped into his office, his eyes briefly registered the red case still perched on the pile of paper in his trashbin - his housekeeper would n't be doing the rounds until Sunday. `` So much for that,'' he thought, settling down in front of his computer and opening his email program. He should thank his client for lunch while it was still fresh on his mind ( and in his belly ). 
 
 The bright green line at the top of the screen highlighted the link to an unread message from his sister-in-law. Jon smiled to himself; she was a pleasant enough woman, but more importantly she was the mother of his favorite ( and only ) niece, Clara. Eight years old, with a bright smile and a sharp wit. Most of all, Clara's love of clocks threatened to rival Jon's own - a devotion he was only too happy to nuture over the years with the occasional gift of a chronological nature. 
 
 After he clicked on the link, the background of Jon's computer screen was replaced with a paragraph of text and the smiling persona of his niece. Jon's blood froze in his veins when he saw the familiar red case she held in her hands. 
 
 His head whipped around to stare at the trashbin, empty now save for a small stack of papers in the bottom. 
 
 As he shakily turned his head back towards the computer, he unwillingly read the accompanying text: 
 
 `` Dear Uncle Jon, thank you so much for the funny clock. It did n't have an address on the box, but I knew right away who it came from!! And it's not even my birthday! It took me forever to find the secret switch, and now I guess I only have a few days until I'm dead. Oh no!! Mom says it's'morbid' but *I* think it's hilarious!!! Thank you so much! Love, Clara''. 
 
 The urgency of the ringing desktop phone barely registered with Jon. Absently summoning enough strength to lift the receiver, he could faintly hear his mother sobbing on the other end, even before he placed the phone to his ear. Muffled words. His father. A heart attack. So sudden. Please come. 
 
 As the phone clattered to the floor, Jon slowly cradled his head in his hands as the town hall clock marked the passing of another quarter-hour.
