Vladimir Putin's stance on Ukraine remains as hard as the Ural granite. In a televised address from the Kremlin this morning, the Russian president reiterated his maximalist demands: recognition of annexed territories and a neutral, demilitarised Ukraine. There was not even the ghost of a concession.
For those in the West who have whispered about a possible diplomatic off-ramp, this was a cold shower. But beneath the surface of state propaganda, there are stirrings. Labour organisers in Moscow and St Petersburg report a quiet but growing murmur among ordinary Russians, not about the war's justice, but about its cost.
The price of bread has climbed another 12 per cent since last month. Cooking oil is rationed in some provincial shops. Wages, frozen by inflation, buy less each week.
The real economy does not lie. Union activists, speaking on condition of anonymity, say that while public criticism of the 'special military operation' remains dangerous, conversations in queues and on factory floors are shifting from patriotic fervour to the price of a loaf. 'My neighbour's son was killed last winter,' said a factory worker from Chelyabinsk.
'We got a certificate. But you can't eat a certificate.' The Kremlin's media machine still churns out victory narratives, but the regional inequality between war-booming arms towns and the struggling hinterlands is becoming harder to paper over.
The question now is whether economic fatigue can ever translate into political pressure. The answer, for now, is no. But the seeds of doubt are scattered.
And they need only a little rain.
