The flames in the fireplace blazed fiercely, their orange-yellow glow reflecting off the stone walls.

The woman’s head hung low, her two braids falling beside her face, her hands resting on her knees; she seemed to have merely fallen asleep. But Min Shu sensed the presence of death emanating from her.

There were many children with health issues at the orphanage; some would say goodnight to him one day, only for Min Shu to see their tiny bodies carried out the next.

As a result, Min Shu had become quite skilled at identifying corpses. He took a few steps closer and whispered, “…Grandma?”

He walked over to the fireplace, reached out, and touched the woman’s hand—it was colder than the floating ice on the lake.

After confirming Isua’s death, Min Shu said nothing more; Isua could no longer hear him, and speaking further would be pointless. The woman sat in her beloved rocking chair, her expression serene.

At least Isua was over eighty, perhaps even ninety—a ripe old age by any country’s standards. Min Shu thought this and felt a little better.

His gaze fell to the woman’s hands resting on her lap. Beneath them lay a small piece of fabric; Min Shu picked it up and saw that it was a pair of gloves.

The gloves were soft, sewn from precious reindeer hide. Isua had traded for this piece of reindeer hide several years ago in exchange for an entire pelt of polar bear fur. Isua had always wanted to make something for him with that pelt; at first, she’d thought of making a pair of boots, but as she was getting older and her energy was waning, she eventually decided to make a pair of gloves instead.

And today, the gloves were finally finished.

Min Shu held the gloves in his hands. Their shadows, cast by the firelight, fell across the stone wall, slowly descending until they curled up into a ball at Isua’s feet.

With Isua’s passing, Min Shu was finally the only one left in the town.

Without the Inuit lullabies sung by Isua, Min Shu couldn’t sleep well for several nights. No one said goodbye to him when he left, and he would no longer hear that gentle wish: “May the ancestral spirits bless you.”

But life had to go on. After feeling down for a few days, Min Shu pulled himself together and continued searching the area around the town for villages that might still be inhabited.

“One at a time!”

Min Shu stood in the yard, handing out treats to the dogs—delicious slices of frozen fish.

The dogs were jumping up and down excitedly, each of them barking at the top of their lungs, making Min Shu’s ears ring.

“Stop yelling!” Annoyed by the noise, Min Shu frowned and glared at them sternly: “Murek, move aside!”

A husky that had darted to the front was called out. Its howling turned into a whimper of grievance, and its big head, covered in thick fur, drooped and whimpered as it backed away to the side.

Seeing the dog looking so aggrieved, Min Shu was at a loss for words. He fed the big dog a piece of frozen fish and patted its head: “Why are you in such a hurry? It’s not like I’m not going to give you any.”

The big dog stopped whimpering and busied itself eating the fish.

Min Shu then distributed the remaining fish fillets to the smaller dogs.

All the huskies in the yard lowered their heads to eat the fish. The succulent salmon had been cut into chunks larger than an adult’s palm, frozen rock-hard in the ice and snow. Watching them crunch the fish with a satisfying “crunch, crunch,” Min Shu felt a twinge in his own teeth just from the sight.

But these sled dogs were sturdy; they were long accustomed to life in the freezing cold. When Min Shu first took them in, Murik was still just a two-month-old puppy, yet he could already sleep outdoors in temperatures well below zero. The Inuit traditionally raised their dogs outside, training them from a young age to withstand the cold; often, a simple hole dug in the snow served as a puppy’s den. Unable to bear it, Min Shu had built a makeshift den in the corner of the house using wooden planks and cloth, but by the time the puppy had grown to his waist height, the den was no longer used.

After eating and drinking their fill, he set off with five dogs.

Across the clear, vast snowfields, the sled dogs raced joyfully. Min Shu sat on the sled, reaching up to hold down his hat and sunglasses, which were on the verge of slipping off:

“Slow down! Slow down!”

With only one underweight person on the sled and no cargo, he felt like he was about to fly off!

The five dogs sprinted at full speed, pulling the underweight Min Shu along as if it were a game. Before noon, they had reached the village closest to the town. However, to Min Shu’s disappointment, it was a ghost town; everyone had left, and only empty houses and a few igloos remained on the ice plain.

Due to neglect, the entire village was largely buried in snow, and some houses had already collapsed. It wasn’t hard to imagine that before long, this village would vanish completely beneath the ice and snow.

Min Shu had no choice but to return home in disappointment.

The only stroke of luck that day was that as soon as Min Shu got home, a heavy snow began to fall.

Min Shu knew at a glance that this snowfall wouldn’t let up anytime soon, so he hurried to the ice cellar to fetch some food and brought it inside. Sure enough, after a week of heavy snow, there was still no sign of it stopping.

The town was shrouded in pristine white snow; soon, the colorful walls of the houses became the only splash of color visible outside the windows. Without skyscrapers to provide contrast, the sky seemed unusually close, the deep black canopy draping seamlessly over the ice sheet like a stage curtain. In the distance, massive icebergs bobbed among the waves, transforming into vast, silent shadows at night.

As Greenland gradually sank into winter, it shed its fairy-tale appearance, revealing the austere cold of the frozen wasteland. By the seventh day, a fierce wind swept across the island.

The howling winds and heavy snow reduced visibility to near zero, nature’s warning to all living things on land that the bitter winter was about to arrive.

Min Shu, however, was not particularly bothered by the days of heavy snow. Having lived on the island for so many years, he had grown quite accustomed to this stormy weather. The thick, sturdy stone walls muffled the howling wind, and the fireplace burned warmly. Wearing a thick, soft sweater and soft woolen socks, Min Shu was cooking in the kitchen.

First, he simmered a pot of warm fish soup using fish bones and flesh. Then he steamed several large buns that had been frozen solid in the ice cellar. He also took a whole rack of mutton and pan-fried it until fragrant. Since vegetables were in short supply on the island, he made do with kimchi, potatoes, and frozen green peas.

The potatoes added a rich depth to the fish soup, and dipping the white steamed buns into the broth made for an incredibly delicious meal. The lamb chops were marinated with spices. After pan-frying, they were sprinkled with cumin and chili powder; the sizzling fat mingled with the aromas of various spices, making the dish look so appetizing just from the smell.

Min Shu learned his cooking skills from a restaurant chef while working part-time in the kitchen during college. Previously, in an effort to leave Greenland, he had traveled back and forth between the capital, Nuuk, and the small town many times, only to be met each time with news that the port was closed. On his final departure from Nuuk, the owner of a Chinese supermarket in the city gave him all the store’s remaining stock.

“Bro, take all this,” the owner, speaking with a Northeastern Chinese accent, told him. “It’s all non-perishable. Take it and eat it slowly. This godforsaken place is getting colder and colder. We’ve already found people to charter a flight back home.”

Upon hearing this, Min Shu was somewhat surprised, but he understood. Greenland had indeed been getting colder in recent years; the ice sheet that had previously melted due to global warming had completely regrown, and it rarely melted even in summer, now covering areas where crops and livestock could once be raised naturally during the warmer months. Perhaps because of this, residents in the north had been moving en masse to the relatively warmer southeastern part of the island.

Min Shu really wanted to go back home himself, but he simply couldn’t afford the flight. Still, he was lucky to have won his entire fortune in the Chinese Super League; otherwise, he wouldn’t even have a spicy lamb chop to eat right now.

Min Shu held a steamed bun in his left hand and a lamb chop in his right, ready to tuck in with the gusto of a Viking. He was going to polish off every last bit of the fragrant feast on the table!

In reality, though, he was full after just one steamed bun and a single bite of lamb chop. Burping contentedly, Min Shu looked at the table full of food: …

Min Shu loves to cook, but he doesn’t really like to eat.

He’s full of enthusiasm while cooking, eager to whip up a full banquet, but once it’s ready, his eyes are bigger than his stomach—he can only manage a few bites before he’s stuffed.

That’s why Min Shu especially loved feeding his friends. He practically raised his college roommates on his fried rice and noodle soup, and once he arrived on the island, he simply opened a Chinese restaurant. Every time he saw the Inuit people in the small town staring wide-eyed at his food and letting out constant exclamations of surprise, Min Shu felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

But now, with only himself as a customer, Min Shu sat before a table full of delicious food and, unusually, felt a pang of loneliness.

But he quickly pulled himself together. Leftovers weren’t a problem—with the island’s climate, they’d stay fresh for days. If worse came to worst, he could just feed them to the dogs in the yard.

After dinner, Min Shu sat on the sofa by the fireplace, holding the fluffy Murik. Though he called it “holding,” the dog was actually sitting in front of him like a mountain; Min Shu wrapped his arms around it from behind and buried his face in the dog’s thick fur.

Unfortunately, Murik soon started whining, turning his head and pawing at Min Shu with his furry paws—he was too hot.

Min Shu had no choice but to let him back out into the yard, then turned on the TV next to the fireplace. The old, heavy set flickered, emitting a buzzing hum as static flecks danced across the small screen before the image finally came into focus.

On the screen, two people wearing red padded jackets were dancing the Yangko.

There was no TV signal in the small town, so Min Shu was playing a few videotapes of past Spring Festival Gala performances, which he’d also inherited from the owner of Hua Chao. Min Shu had watched these Spring Festival Gala recordings countless times. He deftly grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds, picked up the remote, and pressed the buttons a few times, fast-forwarding the tape to the sketch comedy segment.

To be honest, he was getting a bit tired of them. As he watched the bald man on the screen, Min Shu thought to himself, “I could recite everything this actor is about to say by heart.”

Ten minutes later.

“Hahahahahaha—”

Loud laughter pierced through the wind and snow, echoing from inside the house. A few sled dogs crouched in the corner perked up their fluffy ears, lifted their heads, then lay back down on the floor.

They knew their master was in a good mood right now, and when he was happy, he got very loud.

Inside, Min Shu was laughing so hard he was doubled over, sunflower seed shells scattered all over the floor. Whether it was because his sense of humor was too simple or because the old Spring Festival Gala skits were just that classic, Min Shu laughed every single time he watched them. Once he finished watching that year’s show, he switched to another tape, skillfully fast-forwarding straight to the skit, and began laughing so hard he was shaking all over.

The dog outside was used to it; facing his master’s downright terrifying laughter, he didn’t react at all, lying motionless in his snow den.

Min Shu watched while munching on sunflower seeds. When he reached the fourth tape, his expression suddenly changed, and he grabbed the remote to hit pause. Oh no, if he kept laughing, he was going to wet himself.

Min Shu hurriedly stood up and went to the back room to use the bathroom. When she returned to the tower, she saw that it was already pitch black outside the window.

The wind and snow seemed to be getting heavier. As soon as the TV fell silent, Min Shu could hear the howling wind outside. The wind was so strong that even the shape of the snowflakes was indistinguishable; all he could see was a vast expanse of white.

Just then, a dog began barking outside.

The husky’s bark was loud, startling Min Shu. He hurried outside to see what was happening:

“What’s going on? What’s going on?”

As soon as he stepped out into the yard, he saw that the three Huskies and two Alaskan Malamutes in the yard had all gotten to their feet at some point and were gathered at the gate, barking furiously at the blizzard.

Min Shu raised his head and gazed into the blizzard.

At first, he could hardly see anything, but after a moment, Min Shu faintly made out a dark silhouette emerging from the blizzard, standing abruptly upright on the snowy plain and moving toward them.