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

Below it, in parentheses, as if whispered: (1979)

“Hmm?”

“Because,” he says, mouth half-full, “you left the drawer open. And a friend never ignores an open door.”

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.

“I’ll never be good enough,” he muffles. “Not for school. Not for Gian’s baseball games. Not even for Shizuka.”

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

Nobita Nobi’s room. Clothes are strewn on the floor. A test paper lies face down—a zero glaring like a wound. Nobita, ten years old, glasses askew, sobs into his pillow.