He first inspected the stove built with soapstone. As he had expected, during the few hours of his absence, the charcoal used to produce smoke had burned out.
At the bottom of the stove was a thick layer of fine white ash, with a few nearly extinguished embers deep within.
"The cold smoking process almost got interrupted," he muttered to the action camera hanging on his chest, his voice filled with unmistakable fatigue.
"I have to restart it immediately. If the semi-finished smoked fish gets moisture on the surface, it will be troublesome again."
He turned around and quickly returned to the shelter entrance, reaching out to push the heavy wooden door. With a slight creak, the door was opened by a crack.
A flow of warm air, starkly different from the bitter cold outside, instantly surged through the door gap, enveloping him.
This airflow carried the warm aroma of burning wood, instantly soothing his nerves, tense from long exposure to the cold and alertness.
