The Transmigration of Timothy Archer

The passage of time seemed to weigh heavily on The Boy who had never been accused of having a cheerful disposition anyway. With each passing month, he retreated further and further away into the recesses of his own imagination, staring at the repetitive wallpaper patterns that adorned his room's walls, blank noise slowly spreading like cancer and whitewashing all his senses and laying to sleep all centers of vitality and agency. Like clockwork, on the 29th of each successive month, his body became less corporeal, his constitution less sturdy, his eyes more hollowed out and his color more blanched till eventually, on the stroke of midnight in what would've been the 29th of February in a leap year, his ghostly white apparition spontaneously floated up to the ceiling and became one with the wallpaper, absorbed in that tiny twinkle of its cartoon eyes, visible only to those who care to look hard enough.