A low, rolling wind carries the scent of grapevine and wood smoke as the minivan slips out of Belgrade and into Šumadija’s open fields. Within an hour the city’s edge dissolves into a landscape of orchard terraces and forested knolls; the guide’s voice folds history into the hum of the road. At Avala the trees seem to lean in, keeping the hill’s stories—monuments, wartime scars, rebuilt towers—within their shade. On Oplenac the marble of St. George’s Church catches sunlight and holds it like a memory, while mosaics inside throw a thousand tiny colors across the floor.