A slow pan across a quiet Tokyo suburb. The sky is a soft, watercolor orange of a late 1970s autumn evening. Cicadas buzz, a sound as constant as breathing.

Doraemon doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the boy—the boy who is lazy, clumsy, weak-willed, and heartbreakingly kind. The boy who will grow up to marry Shizuka, but only if he learns to stand up first. The boy who is his great-great-grand-uncle’s only hope.

Instead of the truth, Doraemon pulls out a Doriyaki from his pocket. He takes a bite. Crumbs float in the zero-gravity of the evening.

The title card fades in, hand-drawn, imperfect:

“Hmm?”

The drawer slides open.

Nobita sniffles. “I don’t deserve your gadgets, Doraemon.”

The Drawer of Tomorrow

“No,” Doraemon agrees, gently. “You don’t. But that’s not how friendship works.”

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.

“Doraemon?”