“Hmm?”
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.
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. Doraemon -1979-
“Because,” he says, mouth half-full, “you left the drawer open. And a friend never ignores an open door.”
Below it, in parentheses, as if whispered: (1979) “Hmm
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.
“You left the latch unlocked again,” says Doraemon, his voice warm, a little nasally, like a concerned uncle. He climbs out, adjusts his red collar with its golden bell, and pats his yokochō (four-dimensional pocket). “Crying won’t fix the test. But maybe this will.” The robotic cat pats his hair
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.