Chestnuts by the station steps

An original literary non-fiction-style account of passing a chestnut seller on a cold evening.

The smell reached the station steps before the cart came into view. It was warm, dark and slightly sweet, a small contradiction of the air around my ears. People leaving the station carried their shoulders close to their faces. Above the seller's pan, a pale thread of smoke rose, paused beneath the shelter and spread until it could no longer be followed.

The seller opened a paper bag with one flick of his wrist. His other hand moved over the pan, turning the chestnuts in small groups. Their shells shone in patches, some split along one side, some still tightly closed. He selected a few, counted them into the bag and held it out without shaking it to make room.

A woman took the bag between both palms. Before eating anything, she held it against the front of her coat. A child beside her asked whether they could share. She passed it down, and he immediately held it in the same way. Their conversation paused while they stood beside the cart, not quite ready to rejoin the pavement's hurried stream.

I bought a bag and walked on. The paper warmed my fingers through my gloves. Behind me, the cart's little light remained visible between moving coats and buses, a low yellow point which never tried to compete with the station signs. By the next corner, I had stopped hunching my shoulders.

How does the writer use language to present the stall as a place of warmth within the cold street?