# Chapter 29: The Yellow Paper That Would Not Let Go
Hello everyone, it’s me again! How are you all doing? I hope you’re ready, because today we are walking together through one of the most haunting chapters in *Honey in The Wound free digital audiobook*. This is Chapter 29, and it is a chapter built on yellow paper, buried grief, and a name that refuses to stay forgotten. So take a breath, settle in, and let’s follow Makoto into a day that will not let him look away.
The chapter opens with Korea frozen in outrage. The revelations of the Imperial Army’s alleged depravity had brought the nation to a standstill. Cameras flashed in blinding spurts. Audiences sat rapt before the violent torments of an elderly woman who had suffered in silence for decades. News outlets spoke of her *han*—the deep, collective sorrow of a Korean people wronged—and demanded redress from the Japanese government that had long denied any formal state involvement in such sordid matters. Officials insisted that the San Francisco Peace Treaty of 1951 and the reestablishment of Japan–Korea diplomatic relations had already resolved all postwar liabilities. Japan had definitively paid for its wartime and colonial acts, they claimed, even though they themselves were victims of atomic bombings. It was a closed chapter, they said, not to be used to smear the contemporary government.
Makoto knew the government was not as guiltless as it claimed. He had seen criticisms of the Japanese military from foreigners over the years. But this particular subject held no interest for him. He did not shy away from controversy, yet women’s issues simply did not appeal to him—especially when couched in decades-old allegations from foreigners. His preference was to write on harder-hitting, prestigious topics: the prime minister’s costly support of the American war in the Middle East, or the role of technology in Japan’s global economic dominance. Topics ripe to showcase the quality of his intellectual arguments. Not ones that relied on emotional theatrics.
Then, one ordinary afternoon, a short-haired girl in a navy-blue high school sailor fuku sat in front of his workstation. She looked up as he strode toward her with his hands on his hips.
“You have a minute to speak,” Makoto said. “A girl who somehow conned her way to my desk deserves that, at least.”
“Andō-sensei, I have an exclusive source for you.” She placed a small piece of yellow paper on top of the files stacked on his desk. A phone number with a Korean country code was written in neat script. Below the number was a name in Hangul, which Makoto did not understand. The kanji below read “Matsu Eiko,” though the katakana underneath said “Son Yon Ja.”
“What is this?” Makoto asked, annoyed at the girl’s presumptuousness.
“This is my grandmother’s name and phone number. She was one of the Korean comfort women imprisoned in Manchuria by the Japanese military.”
He raised a thick eyebrow at her school uniform. “Your grandmother’s Korean?”
The girl ignored his question. “You should talk to her and write about it.”
“Let me guess—condemning the Japanese government? Demanding they get on their knees and beg for forgiveness?”
“I’m not here to tell you what to say. Just hear her story. You could be the first journalist to report it.”
“I’m not really in the habit of letting children dictate my pieces,” he said shortly.
“People take your column seriously. They’ll listen to you.”
“I won’t deny that, but they’d rather listen to me talk about other things. Your minute is up. Why don’t you go back to school.”
The girl tapped her knuckles on the yellow paper atop his files. “Just one phone call. It’s a story you can’t afford to ignore.”
“Get out. I don’t want to have to call security on a schoolgirl.” He flicked his hand toward the door.
Makoto did not watch the girl walk away. Later, when he rose to refill his water cup, the yellow paper she had left behind caught his eye. He reached out and crumpled it up before tossing it into the waste bin at his feet. He would have to speak with the slackers at reception if they were letting just anybody walk in. He imagined if one of the nutcases who railed against his column could so easily make their way to his desk. They might light it on fire, or attack his colleagues. But Makoto enjoyed the idea that his words could incite such passion. Someone had even called in a bomb threat to the building because he had excoriated Emperor Shōwa’s wartime legacy on the day of his state funeral. Although the call turned out to be a false alarm, the incident shot up his profile at the paper. This was just as well; he did not wish to court any true danger, just reap the benefits of having overcome its perceived threat.
Later that afternoon, Makoto was called into a meeting with a few editors. On the way to the conference room, he walked past the staff bulletin board hanging in the corridor. Yellow popped in the corner of his eye. He whipped his head back, searching the numerous missives tacked onto the board. There, amid the building maintenance announcements and staff notices, was a yellow paper with that phone number and name: Son Yon Ja.
Makoto ripped the paper off the board. It was marred with the same crumple marks from when he had balled it up and thrown it into the trash earlier. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. Someone was clearly pulling a prank on him. Makoto scrunched up the note in his palms once again and threw it away.
Concentration eluded him for most of the meeting. He stole a surreptitious glance at his watch, wondering when he could go outside for some fresh air. He had smoked his last cigarette earlier and was feeling the tug to buy more. No one else was outside when Makoto made his way to the corner of the roof where other men liked to loiter for breaks. He tapped the newly purchased pack of cigarettes against his palm in automatic habit before tearing into it. He nearly dropped the pack when he saw what lay within.
Inside was the customary deep gold of cigarette filters, though an incomplete set of nineteen. The twentieth slot was occupied by a roll of yellow paper waiting to be pulled out.
Makoto pinched the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. He pulled the yellow cylinder from the pack and unfurled it to reveal what he knew would be scribbled inside. That same number and that same name. Son Yon Ja.
Makoto ripped up the paper and threw the scraps into the waste bin underneath the ashtray. He lit a cigarette and inhaled a deep first drag. He was not amused by whatever trickery this was. He faced the door, hoping for someone else to join and engage him in conversation. When no one came, Makoto put out his barely smoked cigarette and returned inside. He needed to make some progress on his next piece. That would take his mind off things.
Hiding behind the papers at his desk, he wrote in furious scribbles, pressing his pen with a heavy hand into his notepad.
“Andō-san.”
Makoto jumped. One of the recent junior reporter hires stood before him. He cleared his throat and asked what she needed. Makoto only half listened to whatever the woman was saying, wishing she would leave him alone.
“… and so I corroborated the account with Son Yon Ja in Archives, and she said that—”
“What did you say?” His question came out in a loud, shrill interjection. This startled the junior reporter into silence and turned nearby heads. He smiled nervously and nodded at the others to signal that all was fine.
“Excuse me,” he said, forcing a smile at the junior reporter. “I meant, what was that name you said? In Archives?”
The woman shrank back. “… ah, Hayashi-san? I corroborated the account with Hayashi-san?”
Makoto shook his head and told the reporter to excuse him, for he was not feeling well. She gave a slight bow as he swept past her toward the corridor. The room began whispering about Andō-san’s outburst.
He rushed to the sink in the men’s bathroom. A splash of cold water on his face calmed him, though his reflection appeared grotesque and haggard in the harsh overhead lighting. He threw more water on his face and turned the faucet off before reaching into his pocket. His fingertips brushed something that was not the cotton handkerchief he sought. He did not have to see what he touched to know what it was. The water on his face dripped down his neck and wet the collar of his shirt. Makoto pulled out of his pocket the yellow paper with that same number and name. Son Yon Ja.
Nausea struck his throat. Saliva pooled at his teeth. He was unwell—he would excuse himself on sick leave for the first time in his decade at the paper.
Back at his apartment building, Makoto decided not to check his mailbox, wishing to avoid contact with any paper for the remainder of the day. He was eager to get back into his apartment and sleep off the whole affair. Start anew. His hands shook as he pulled out his key and tried to put it into the lock of his front door. His pulse pounded in his ears as he wondered if that same yellow could await him inside. He turned the handle, shut his eyes, and pulled open the door.
The space was as he had left it that morning, including the half-drunk cup of coffee on the kitchen table he had forgotten to dump out into the sink. He kicked off his shoes and admonished himself for getting so worked up. Thinking back, he wondered if he had just eaten something funny and overreacted. He downed a glass of water and took a hot bath to settle his frayed nerves.
Falling face down onto his bed, Makoto finally felt calm enough to laugh at the absurdity of his day. He must have been overworked. Things would be fine. He rolled over from his stomach to his back, letting out a loud sigh of relief as he splayed across the bed. But his body seized in cold shock when he looked up: dozens of yellow papers were plastered across the ceiling, their corners rustling from a nonexistent breeze in his still room.
One of the papers dislodged from the array and floated down, swerving in a zigzag path to land on Makoto’s disbelieving face. He grabbed it to inspect the number and name written in that same neat script. Son Yon Ja.
It was paper. It could not hurt him. But Makoto could not shake the suspicion that he was being hunted. That the girl’s message would follow him until he relented. He recalled her request for one phone call and sighed. Simple enough. If he did as she asked, perhaps he would never have to act a fool for a sheet of paper again. He stretched out his arm toward the telephone near his bed and dialed the number that had followed him all day.
“Son Yon Ja-san? I hear you have a story I can’t afford to ignore.”
Then the chapter shifts into dream. A blanket of yellow butterflies undulates down from the sky and perches to rest in a grove. A girl with a long black braid laughs and spins, waving her arms to mimic the movement of the wings. A man approaches. He pinches the wing of a nearby butterfly between his forefinger and thumb and drops it into the girl’s hands. The creature flutters meekly before perishing motionless, dusting her palms with its residue. The others fly away in alarm, surging past in a mad flurry. The man pursues the butterflies, snatching them midflight and crushing them to powder in his grip. The girl yells for the man to stop. He does not heed her words and disappears into the distance.
The girl is now an old woman. Her wrinkled hands remain smeared with butterfly dust. She rubs her hands hot, but no amount of skin-tearing friction rids her of the stains. She cries out, hands raw to the touch. She cries but does not know who will hear her.
Seoul, Republic of Korea, 1992.
Rinako slipped gloves onto her grandmother’s shaking hands and patted them gently. A chill rippled in the January air, but anticipation dulled the cold. Hand in hand, the pair walked toward the bus stop. On the bus, Rinako stared at the passing buildings of Seoul. She was able to read some of the signs now—pharmacy, bookstore, dentist—having purchased a few Korean language workbooks to go over in the evenings when her father believed she was doing her homework. While his admonishing displeasure with her behavior had been a constant in her life, she suspected she might finally witness the full extent of his fury when she returned to Tokyo. Rinako had lifted money from his pockets every day over the last few months that winter until she had accrued enough to purchase another flight to Seoul. It was unfortunate this trip had to fall the week before her exams—it would only make whatever punishment he had waiting for her that much more severe. But she would not miss the opportunity to be with her grandmother on this day.
Once the bus dropped them at their destination, Rinako and Young-Ja walked over to the sizable group of mostly women gathering outside the Japanese embassy. Smiles greeted them as they entered the crowd’s embrace. Although many were meeting for the first time, these women were known to one another. They bore scars of bondage across their connected bodies. Their hands were gripped with shared purpose. All donned white vests over their coats and raised banners against the Japanese government that continued to deny that its colonial apparatus had systematized and profited from the sexual slavery of young girls all across Asia.
The bespectacled professor Rinako had worked with since the fall was handing yellow papers to passersby who had slowed with curiosity about the gathering. And in that image—yellow paper moving from hand to hand, memory refusing to be buried, a grandmother standing where governments wished she would vanish—the chapter leaves us trembling.
---
## Reader’s Impressions & Star Rating
As a reader, this chapter absolutely haunted me. The yellow paper motif is brilliant—at first it feels like a prank, then a threat, then a ghost, then a conscience. Makoto’s arrogance is so sharply drawn that watching his composure crack is deeply satisfying, but it is also unsettling because his indifference reflects something real in the world: the desire to look away from women’s pain because it is inconvenient, old, or emotionally messy. The butterfly dream is devastating. It turns violence into something delicate and beautiful, only to crush it, and the old woman’s stained hands carry centuries of grief in one image. Then, when the story shifts to Seoul in 1992 and we see Rinako with Young-Ja at the embassy, the chapter transforms from a psychological haunting into a historical reckoning. The contrast between Makoto’s air-conditioned newsroom and the women’s white vests in the January cold is unforgettable.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.9 / 5 Stars
## Next Chapter Prediction
I predict the next chapter will follow Makoto as he finally hears Son Yon Ja’s testimony—or perhaps the phone call will pull him toward Seoul, where Rinako and Young-Ja are already standing outside the Japanese embassy. The yellow papers will continue to blur the line between supernatural warning and historical memory. I suspect Makoto will be forced to confront not only the government’s denial but his own comfortable indifference. There may also be a powerful revelation connecting Young-Ja to the name Son Yon Ja, and Rinako’s quiet rebellion against her father could place her at the center of the story. The embassy protest feels like a fuse being lit, and I believe the next chapter will bring Makoto face to face with the very story he tried to crumple, toss away, and forget.
To listen free the next reviews chatpers, please access website novelsaudio.com and search keyword: Honey in The Wound free digital audiobook or click the link in the description of this video or if you want to listen or read full the Honey in The Wound free digital audiobook please access website novelsaudio.com