帰ろかな

Where "函館の女" moves outward toward a remembered landscape, "帰ろかな" turns inward, tracing the quiet, indecisive pull of homesickness. Kitajima strips back the arrangement here — lighter orchestration, strings that sigh rather than soar, a tempo that seems to pause and reconsider itself, much like the narrator weighing whether to board the train home. His voice is softer than in his uptempo work, the rough edges smoothed into something almost vulnerable, the vibrato expressing ambivalence rather than conviction. The lyric explores that peculiarly Japanese emotional register of neither fully leaving nor fully returning — the liminal space of the traveler who has been away long enough to be changed but not long enough to have forgotten. There is no dramatic resolution; the song simply breathes in and out like someone sitting on a station bench in the rain. The production has an autumnal quality, as if recorded in the shortening days of October, and it rewards listening alone — during a long commute, or in the moment between deciding and doing, when the gap between two lives feels both vast and bridgeable.