A few days later, the house pulsed with a new kind of energy. Relatives had gathered, filling the living room with the warm hum of casual chatter, light laughter, and the rhythmic *clink* of teacups meeting saucers.
The baby sat perched in his mother's arms, a silent observer amidst the social whirlwind. His golden eyes were in constant motion, tracking the room with a precision that bordered on the clinical. He watched the animated gestures of the guests, then shifted his gaze to the ceiling fan spinning lazily above, and then back to the architectural layout of the room, as if he were mentally mapping every exit.
"He is absolutely precious," one of the aunts remarked, her eyes softening.
"And those eyes..." another added, leaning in. "They're like polished amber. I've never seen anything so striking."
The mother offered a polite, practiced smile, adjusting the baby's weight. Sensing the attention, a five-year-old boy—the son of the visitors—shuffled forward. He stood on his tiptoes, peering over the edge of the blanket.
"He's so tiny," the boy whispered, wide-eyed.
The adults shared a collective chuckle. Emboldened by the audience, the boy began to wave his hand slowly in front of the infant's face. The baby blinked, his golden eyes following the hand with a flat, unamused expression.
The boy giggled and, driven by a sudden burst of curiosity, reached out to lightly poke the baby's nose.
The baby blinked again.
The boy poked him a second time. Then a third.
The baby's expression shifted. His brow twitched, and he raised a tiny, trembling hand as if to ward off the intrusion, but his infant limbs lacked the reach. The boy, oblivious to the silent protest, went in for one more poke.
The reaction was instantaneous. The baby's face crumpled, and he let out a sharp, piercing wail that sliced through the room's chatter.
The living room fell silent. The five-year-old scrambled back, his face flushing with instant regret. "I'm sorry, Auntie..."
"It's alright," the mother said gently, rocking the child back and forth. "He's just a bit sensitive today. A lot of new faces."
She patted his back, murmuring soft comforts until the crying tapered off into shallow, rhythmic breaths. The baby's small frame relaxed, but his eyes remained open. He looked toward the little boy for a fleeting second—a gaze that felt oddly like a warning—before his attention was suddenly snatched away.
He turned his head toward the side of the room.
His gaze locked onto a section of the wall that was entirely, stubbornly empty. There were no portraits there, no shadows, no flickering lights—just a plain, white surface.
The baby went perfectly still. Slowly, with a deliberate effort, he raised his small hand and pointed. His tiny fingers stretched toward the void, trembling slightly as if reaching for something just out of sight.
The mother followed his line of sight, her brow furrowing. "What is it, little one?"
She saw nothing but the wall.
"He does this every now and then," she said to the guests, trying to break the sudden tension with a nervous laugh. "He points and fusses whenever he wants to go that way." She looked at the blank space again. "But there's nothing there. Just the wall."
One of the visiting women chuckled into her tea. "Maybe he just has an eye for interior design. He's probably telling you it needs a painting."
The room broke into light, relieved laughter, and the flow of conversation resumed. But the baby didn't join in. He didn't look back at the people.
He kept his hand outstretched for a few seconds longer, his golden eyes fixed on the empty air with a chilling intensity, as if he were staring directly into the eyes of someone—or something—standing right there.
Finally, he lowered his hand and settled back against his mother's shoulder, his expression returning to that of a calm, innocent newborn.
The guests went back to their tea and gossip, but a faint, inexplicable chill lingered in the corner of the room. They saw an empty wall; the child saw a doorway.