It wasn’t until the sky turned deep blue that Min Shu finally made it home.

Min Shu huffed and puffed his way into the town—though calling it a town was a stretch; where he lived was really just a small Inuit settlement with a total of thirty households. There was virtually no vegetation on Greenland, so to add a splash of color to this place where nothing but snow stretched as far as the eye could see, the residents’ little wooden houses were mostly painted in bright, vivid colors.

Blue, orange, yellow—houses of every color dotted the hillside, their eaves covered in a thin layer of snow, with a deep blue sky behind them, creating a scene as beautiful as an oil painting.

It’s just a shame that the windows of the houses are all pitch black.

The Nanook family is the last remaining household in the town besides Min Shu. As the weather has grown exceptionally cold in recent years, others have gradually left the town one by one. Some have migrated to the warmer southern part of Greenland, while others have gone to other cities to stay with relatives and friends, or to the capital, Nuuk, to do business, and without exception, none have returned.

Min Shu didn’t know exactly what had happened, but he had a vague sense that something was amiss. Yet the town had indeed grown increasingly desolate in recent years. Not only were there no hospitals or schools, but even the most basic utilities—heating and electricity—were on the verge of failing. If it weren’t for someone like Min Shu, who was content to simply wait for death, staying here would certainly not be a long-term solution.

Min Shu looked out at the empty, deserted town, sighed, and walked toward the only source of light on the hillside.

It was an all-red building, consisting of a small house connected to a tower. The tower’s paint was peeling in places, and a crooked sign hung awkwardly from its spire, blindingly bright with the three large characters “Chinese Restaurant.”

However, several sections of the fluorescent tubes had frozen and cracked, so “Chinese Restaurant” had now become “Chinese Rest.” But since there were no customers anyway, Min Shu couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

The man who sold him the house was the town’s only Christian. He had originally planned to preach the gospel here, but unfortunately, most of the pure-blooded Inuit in the town practiced the ancient shamanic faith, so his missionary work was a complete failure.

When Min Shu suggested hanging a Chinese restaurant sign on the tower, the Christian was initially very reluctant. But after Min Shu treated him to a steaming hot plate of boiled fish, the old man changed his mind and even helped him hang the sign up himself.

Min Shu lifted his frozen feet and laboriously pushed through the snowdrift at the doorway. Once he reached the ground that had been shoveled that morning, he was finally able to pick up his pace. He walked into the courtyard and first checked the bright red mailbox by the entrance; sure enough, it was completely empty.

Seeing this, Min Shu sighed, though he wasn’t exactly disappointed; after all, with the town’s population having moved away, he hadn’t seen a mail carrier in quite some time. Since unexpectedly becoming stranded on the island, Min Shu had made numerous efforts to return home, even writing to the nearest embassy when his visa was about to expire. Unfortunately, the letter had gone unanswered, and he had heard nothing since.

Min Shu had actually given up all hope; checking the mailbox was merely a habit. He closed the mailbox and turned toward the entrance of the Chinese restaurant. As soon as he pushed open the door, the warm air from the heating system immediately washed over him.

Min Shu’s numb face finally found relief; he yanked off his scarf and blurted out:

“Grandma, I’m back! It’s so cold out there, my legs are frozen stiff!”

He wasn’t speaking Chinese, but an Inuit language he’d picked up from the locals.

The space inside the tower wasn’t large. A massive fireplace was embedded in the stone walls, and in front of it lay a snow-white fur rug—once a complete polar bear pelt, a gift from Mayor Iq before he left. Beside the rug stood an exquisitely crafted wooden rocking chair, occupied by an elderly woman.

Even in the warm interior, she was dressed in thick fur garments; the skin exposed was a slightly deep yellow, with weathered furrows etched into the skin of her hands and face. Her black hair was braided into two thick plaits, hanging down on either side of her broad shoulders.

The woman’s name was Isua. She was already in her eighties when Min Shu first met her. Her family had passed away long ago, and she lived alone in the small town. She was a regular at Min Shu’s Chinese restaurant and particularly loved the tender crab roe tofu.

Seeing that the town’s population was dwindling, Min Shu decided to bring the old woman to live with him. Noticing that she seemed to be asleep, Min Shu moved closer: “Grandma, are you asleep?”

Hearing his voice, the woman stirred from her slumber. Her cloudy eyes slowly opened and turned toward Min Shu.

“Ah—” The woman’s reaction was a bit slow, but fine laugh lines gradually crept into her small eyes. “Min, you’re back?” Though she couldn’t speak this language, she could pronounce “Min” with perfect clarity.

“Yes, Grandma,” Min Shu said in a slightly petulant tone. “I’m frozen stiff!”

The woman said in Inuktitut, “Quick, take off your clothes, hang your pants by the stove, and wipe yourself down with a towel—”

Min Shu did as he was told and went into the inner room to take off his pants. He was wearing two pairs: one was the down-filled pants he’d bought at great expense when he first arrived on the island, and the other was a traditional Inuit sealskin pair designed to ward off the cold. After walking through the snow for a while, both pairs had frozen stiff. Once the heat melted the snow, the damp fabric clinging to his skin would make him feel even colder.

Min Shu quickly took off both pairs of pants and hung them on a rack by the fireplace—the heat from the fire would dry them quickly while also softening the frozen sealskin.

Lacking other means of heating, Inuit women often used their teeth to soften the fur while sewing, which is why many of them lost their teeth to decay at an early age. Granny Isua’s teeth were in poor condition as well. Min Shu took off her clothes and walked out wearing only a thin sweater and lounge pants and asked the woman, “Grandma, shall we have soup rice for dinner tonight?”

But Grandma Isua didn’t answer him. Instead, she beckoned Min Shu to her side, reached out to touch his slender shoulders, and spoke a string of Inuktitut.

“Surusikuluk, Surusikuluk.”

As she spoke the Inutuk, Min Shu understood what she meant.

“Poor child,” the woman said, stroking the young man’s gaunt back with pity. “Poor child—”

Min Shu sighed helplessly. “Grandma, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

He’d been sickly since birth, so his body hadn’t developed properly—he had a small frame and was underweight. Still, somehow, he’d managed to grow to 177 cm, and Min Shu was quite content with that.

Yet his physique, which was already on the frail side even for an Asian, looked all the more pitiful to the Inuit, a people who had battled the cold for generations. Min Shu was a full size smaller than some adult Inuit women, so it was no wonder Isua was always nagging him.

“I’m really fine, Grandma.” Min Shu supported the woman as they walked toward the dining hall at the back, reassuring her along the way: “Look, didn’t I make it all the way to the harbor today?”

Hearing this, Isua glanced at him and rattled off a string of Inuktitut. She spoke too quickly for Min Shu to understand, but he could tell from her expression that she was thoroughly unimpressed by that short walk to the harbor.

Min Shu：……

He suddenly thought of the Inuit men who could go out to sea for days and nights on just a few pieces of frozen fish and return with a shark, and he fell silent. He had to admit that in the eyes of these people—who could physically wrestle with polar bears—he was more fragile than a little bird.

Min Shu helped the woman to the dining table, then turned to heat up a bowl of steaming hot soup rice.

Soup rice was cooked in a light fish broth, with diced salted pork, frozen peas and corn, and some precious leafy greens added. Simmered over low heat until rich and flavorful, every grain of rice had absorbed the broth, becoming sweet, soft, and sticky—just the way Isua liked it.

While cooking, Min Shu took a quick look at the ice cellar where they stored food and noticed that supplies were running low, especially vegetables—mostly just frozen and pickled kimchi. There used to be heated greenhouses in the town; though the yield was low, they managed to provide some vegetables. However, as the townspeople left one by one over the past few years, the greenhouses fell into neglect. Min Shu had tried growing vegetables himself, but nothing would take root.

He was already busy enough just tending to the chickens and miniature pigs he raised in the barn. The weather had grown increasingly harsh in recent years; just last week, a laying hen had frozen to death. If the weather continued to deteriorate like this, he feared he might not even have eggs to eat.

Could it be that one day he’ll have to adopt the Inuit way of life completely???

At this thought, Min Shu couldn’t help but recall the Inuit’s famous delicacy, the ice petrel, and fell into silence. No, he couldn’t think about it anymore; if he did, he wouldn’t be able to eat his meal.

Min Shu shook his head, banishing the terrifying image of the ice-sea swallow from his mind. He scooped a small plate of kimchi from the sealed jar in the cellar and pan-fried the leftover rainbow trout from the day before, putting together a simple dinner.

At the table, Isua scooped a spoonful of soup rice into her mouth and immediately wore an expression of pure delight. However, when she looked at Min Shu, she began to grumble:

“You need to eat fish.” The woman kept pushing the fried fish toward Min Shu: “Eat fish—it’s good for your bones.”

Min Shu felt quite helpless. High-quality protein was certainly good, but he hadn’t grown much taller in years. Still, he obediently placed the fish into his bowl. Just as he was about to peel off the skin out of habit, Isua immediately protested:

“You have to eat the skin too.” The woman said, “It’ll help you put on weight—”

Min Shu sighed in resignation: “All right, Grandma.”

He had no choice but to eat the skin as well. Min Shu knew of the Inuit people’s obsession with fat in the extreme cold. When he first arrived in the town, the mayor’s family had treated him to a delicacy called Akutaq.

This traditional delicacy, also known as Inuit ice cream, is a dessert made from whale blubber and berries. Even with modern adaptations that include cream and sugar, this dessert—composed of 90% fat—still didn’t taste good to Min Shu.

In comparison, a few pieces of fish skin were nothing.

Seeing Min Shu obediently finish the fish skin, Isua smiled with satisfaction.

After dinner, Min Shu helped Isua to her room to rest. Moonlight streamed through the window into the living room; the night sky was free of any light pollution, and one could almost see the entire Milky Way.

Min Shu lay in bed under a thick blanket, starlight spilling across his face. In his ears, he could hear Isua’s gentle voice singing an ancient Inuit nursery rhyme.

Min Shu gradually felt drowsy and slowly closed his eyes. Just before he drifted completely into sleep, he heard himself ask: “…Grandma, where has everyone gone? Are they all doing well?”

Isua’s singing stopped.

A moment later, as Min Shu’s consciousness began to fade, the woman’s gentle voice reached him:

“I don’t know, child.”

“But no matter what, the Ancestral Gods will watch over you.”

The next day, Min Shu woke up early.

It was another sunny day, and Min Shu planned to brave the heat to visit the nearby village and see if any residents remained there. With no customers, his Chinese restaurant had been closed for quite some time!

Although he currently had no boat and couldn’t restock his supplies—and even if he made money, he couldn’t spend it—Min Shu was still hoping to trade his delicious food for some essentials: things like salt, sugar, fish, and warm clothing.

It was over ten kilometers from the town to the nearest village, so Min Shu had no choice but to harness the five sled dogs he kept in his yard and set off on a dog-drawn sled.

“Go!” Min Shu commanded the dogs in Inuktitut, though not very fluently: “Slow down, hey, keep to the left—”

The dogs responded with loud barks. Listening to their wolf-like howls, Min Shu felt as if his ears were about to burst. Fortunately, there wasn’t a soul on the snowy plain, so at least he didn’t have to worry about disturbing anyone.

Unfortunately, they had only gone halfway when light snow suddenly began to fall from the sky. In Min Shu’s experience, light snow at this time of year would quickly turn into a blizzard. To be on the safe side, he had no choice but to turn the sled dogs around.

Sure enough, by the time Min Shu returned home, the entire town was already blanketed in snow, with visibility nearly zero.

“Grandma, I’m back!”

Min Shu shook the snow from his head in a disheveled state, brushing the snow off his clothes as he walked into the house:

“It started snowing suddenly halfway through the trip. We didn’t even make it halfway, and we have no idea how long this snowstorm will last—”

Min Shu spoke, but received no reply. He felt something was amiss. Turning his head, he saw Isua sitting in the rocking chair, her head bowed, already silent.