The two of them sit on a telephone pole. The bamboo-copter spins down. Nobita rests his head against Doraemon’s warm, round belly. The robotic cat pats his hair.
The room is still. Then, a soft click from the desk drawer. Not a latch. A mechanism. A low, mechanical hum, followed by the gentle poing of a spring. Doraemon -1979-
“Because,” he says, mouth half-full, “you left the drawer open. And a friend never ignores an open door.” The two of them sit on a telephone pole
Two round, blue hands grip the edge. Then, a head emerges—no, a dome. A perfect, ceramic blue circle with no ears, just a stubby antenna. Two large, sympathetic eyes blink in the twilight. The robotic cat pats his hair
“Doraemon?”
The drawer slides open.
Nobita sniffles. “I don’t deserve your gadgets, Doraemon.”